


A New Tapestry

by Xena1016



Series: Fate's Unwoven [3]
Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen, Historical, Hurt/Comfort, World War I
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:08:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28134456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xena1016/pseuds/Xena1016
Summary: Blake and Schofield have finished their mission - A terrible battle has been averted. But the Great War still rages on. Have the actions and sacrifices of our heroes made any difference, or have they simply delayed the inevitable?
Relationships: Joseph Blake & Tom Blake, Tom Blake & William Schofield, Tom Blake & William Schofield & Original Female Character(s), Tom Blake/Original Female Character(s), William Schofield & Original Female Character(s), William Schofield/William Schofield's Wife
Series: Fate's Unwoven [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1839169
Comments: 11
Kudos: 6





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> And here we are- at the beginning of the end(maybe)! Sorry about the delay folks - I've been fighting through a swath of writer's block to get this done. But I hope to get back to a normal pace soon!

* * *

_Tom is eleven years old. Barefoot and running as fast as his legs will carry him across dew-covered grasses in a bid to reach the tallest thing in the pasture. His grandpa's Shire horse._

_"Mace, Mace! Look! Look at the big field," he cheers, excitement filling with a voice with a level of mania as he clambers on the beast. Mace, being of good breeding and even better temperament, was impassive as ever, his great big head only turned to give the noisy lad a once over before the Draught beast swung his neck around the opposite way._

_"Mace, you big clumper, let me up!" the boy whined, trying to pull himself up on the horse's bridle – the only handholds Tom could reach on the creature. He could get in trouble for this; Mace is a workhorse – not fit for little lads to be riding on. Mace's back is warm on Tom's feet, and the boy stands, eyes turning in expectation as he can finally see over the Hedgerows._

_"There they are, Mace!" he exclaims, eyes going wide and his jaw-dropping at the magnificence before him._

_They were black and silver with gold decorations painted on them. Steam pulsed from their stacks with each movement as they rumbled on. They were trains on wheels! One has made its way to one end of the field and released two shrill whistles. Its partner answered in kind, and soon the fantastic beasts are pulling a long plow shear across the field.  
The machine was eating the ground! A giant open maw with curved teeth hangs over the land, and its lower jaw parts the earth as if it were water under one's hand. It moved back and forth; when it reached one end of the field, men would tip the plow over. A big central wheel is making the upper jaw became the lower, and with a brief crawl forward, the machine was sunk in, moving on in the opposite direction. Swiftly turning a field of green, brown with fresh furrows_

_"It would take you a month to do all that, Mace!" Tom declares, looking down at the horse, who was not so interested in the noisy machines, and dipped his head to the sweet grass. Tom huffs at the beast's lack of enthusiasm; it was a daft thing. He looks back to the machine and waves to the men on the plow shear and nearly whoops when he sees three hands shoot up in the answer._

_Then something odd happens, plow lurches, and Tom catches the sight of a big puff of steam and smoke erupt from one tractor – it takes a moment, and suddenly a thunderclap rips across the field. It's the loudest thing Tom's ever heard- he feels it pulse in his chest, and he flinches with a yelp. But old Mace has a far greater reaction. The beast lets out a shrill noise, and Tom feels every muscle in the creature go taught._

_Then Tom is on his back, letting out a huff as Mace rears up then bolts with a kick. The jostling throws Tom into a seating position, his hands tangle in maces mane, and he tries to squeeze the beast's shoulders with his legs, but Mace’s back is too broad, and Tom's legs aren't long enough. He hangs on well enough, but then, Mace turns with more agility than a beast his size ought to have._

_The sudden change in direction throws Tom off the creature's back, and the boy is sent flying to the ground._

_It didn't hurt, not at the time. He hits the grass with a thump, and all the air is knocked out of him. He lays there, stunned for a moment. Before he jumps back to his feet and once there's wind in his sails again. He's bolting to the house, wailing and crying for Mum._

Tom finds himself drifting back to the waking world yet again, and he groans at the soreness that's seeped into every ounce of him. He remembers Grampa saying that he'd feel that tumble in the morning.

Not that it soothed Mum's anger any – Tom swore he could still feel the sting on his backside from the walloping she gave him. He cried and cried. Hurt and confused and more than a little put off at being scolded. But it's what he got for breaking the rules.

Even Grandma says he's lucky when she came to him later with tea and soup. She distracted him with stories of her brothers and their own horse-related accidents as she put salves on his scrapes and bruises before ruffling his curls and tucking him in for a nap.

Oh. . . what Tom would give to be back there now.

He groans as he becomes fully aware of himself – bleary eyes search the white canvas above him as the memories of simpler times fade, and he's left with nothing but the cold reality of his current lot.

He's cold, alone, and feeling like he's been trampled by a whole herd of Old Maces. It takes him a moment to recall exactly how he ended up here, as broken memories float in a sea of thick muck in his head.

That's right, he almost bit it last night, didn't he?

Losing another groan, as that seems to be all he can do that moment. Blake tries to pick up his head to open his eyes, but as he tries to move, the pain that he'd almost forgotten surges back in a slow but unavoidable wave that threatens to throw him back into the abyss.

The reminder of his state causes Tom to still, and he feels his face scrunch in discomfort as tears prick at his eyes. His body reminds him of each hurt he acquired as if one by one, like a fire being built one log at a time.

Worst of all, however, is that there was something _new_ as well! Tom is jolted from his thoughts by a sudden stabbing in his arm, and when he tries to move, hands descend on him, and he is shushed.

"Steady on, Corporal." 

Tom groans and pulls his eyes open to see an older man- a Sargent - hovering over him. He was so distracted that Tom didn't even hear the man come in. The Sergeant looked Blake over a bit, a hand coming to rest on Tom's face – a cold thumb pulling his eye open all the way to look at whatever it is doctors look for, and Tom doesn't have the presence of mind to put up any manner of resistance.

"You seem to be doing better- an improvement over last night at least." The man says, straight to business, and Tom catches sight of a red tube hanging in the air.

"Did you sleep well?" the doctor presses.

"N-no, sir." He croaks; it took him a moment to make the words come forth, his mouth sticking shut and his throat parched. Tom's eyes drift from the medic to the tube, and he follows it to a bottle that hangs from a hook next to his bed. "Cold, sir."

"I imagine so." The man says, and the sound of a teacup being filled meets Tom's ears. He is distracted from the red tube and looks up in time to see the man carefully guide a cup down for him to drink from. "Let's see if this doesn't warm you up a bit."

Tom tries lifting his hand to take the cup, and both he and the doctor react when something tugs on the younger man's arm. Tom hisses at the pain and turns his attention to investigate. He finds that the other end of that strange tube is going into his arm.

"Easy lad – don't yank on that." The man says, leaning over to make sure Tom's not broken anything. "We had to pull you off once already – and you could use it, so try to be still."

"Is that blood?" Tom asks squeamishly as his mind finally puts the pieces together.

"Sure is." The doc answers with a rueful smirk. "We brought up a bunch in preparation for the attack." He pauses and looks Tom in the face. "But because of you, we didn't need it." 

The younger man blinks slowly in response to this; his mind slows when his eyes fall on the teacup again.

"Something of a waste really, it doesn't keep for more than a few days, but if I had to choose – I'd rather it be wasted." There is a momentary pause, and Tom can't think of what to say. Should he…thank the man for a compliment?

"Now, drink this." The doc orders, guiding a hand under Tom's head to help lean him up. "Best to take it still warm."

Tom thinks it's supposed to be tea of some manner – there are hints of boiled veg and lard. It's disgusting, and on the second sip, he's never wanted his grandmother's strange herbal teas more than in this moment. But it is water none the less, and its presence is heaven-sent. The doc only gives him a few small sips at a time, and Tom allows himself to bask in the soft warmth of the stuff as it settles in his belly.

As he does this, a din from outside wiggles it's way into Tom's ears, and he can't push it out – there are chattering voices, rustling fabric, clattering wood, and more than one horse making a racket.

"What's going on?" Tom groans, turning his attention to the doctor as the man seems preoccupied with a clipboard.

"We have to move the station." The man answers, brows creasing as he reads. "Are you in pain, Corporal?"

Tom answers in the affirmative, but more than the pain is the horrid thirst that's been plaguing him since late last night. The doc doesn't seem concerned; in fact, he appeared to be expecting such a report. Tom is given more tea and a small dosage of morphia – he settles back into the pillows, feeling quite miserable as he is very much useless. And the longer he's awake, the more anxiety builds and gnaws at him.

Where was Joe? Did he speak with Mackenzie – was there anyone going out to look for Gale and Scho? How was Schofield faring? Did he wake up? Is Gale still keeping on? Are they trying to make their way here despite the Germans and the daylight? Are they dead? – They're dead, aren't they?

These questions and a million more run rampant in his head, and all the fretting is swiftly burning through what little energy he has.

Reprieve from his thoughts comes when the medical Officer returns, a tray of fresh bandages in tow.

Tom is stripped of his blankets, and in the light, he gets a fresh look at his person. The wound in his thigh has been sutured closed, leaving a ragged, angry wound where his skin has been forcefully pulled together, the flesh is held in place by wiry string that snags into the gauze, and what blood and other fluids oozed from the wound stick to soiled bandages.

Fresh pain is brought to him as the doc peels the gauze away, and that pain grows even more when he puts a fresh wiping of iodine over the red and swollen flesh. The doc shushes and encourages Tom all the while, and he continues the process as he moves from one wound to the next until only his bound leg is left.

Another arduous process and Tom wished he'd be left alone to the toiling in his mind. The flesh around his knee was swollen to a frightening degree; the skin has turned purply red from the stresses of what injury lies beneath, and in places, the splint they applied in the night has bit angry red shapes into his skin.

The sight of it makes Tom whimper –

"Am I going to lose my leg?" he asks, eyes stuck on the abnormal lump where his knee should be.

The medical officer tuts, shaking his head.

"Heavens no." he starts with a gentle smile. "There is no infection –"the man glances to wound with great scrutiny as if to say: ' _not yet anyway'_ before the man returns his attention to Tom. He leans in just a little closer, a slightly mischievous glint in his eyes. "And if you ask me – I doubt there is a break."

Tom looks at the Officer, a small flickering of hope in his eyes as the man stands to his full height again, the slightest hint of smugness now in his smile.

"The knee was not in proper alignment, but it is a very different kind of joint compared to others in the body – there is probably an injury to the soft tissue which surrounds its many bones -"

The medical Officer explains a great deal about the knee and how it functions. It's strangely comforting to Tom. To hear it laid out in such a way – it served as a nice distraction, and Tom begins to suspect that it's precisely what the Officer wanted as the man goes about cleaning and rebounding Tom's damages.  
  


All the while, the man was chattering away. From the different way's joints are put together to looking for the signs of gangrene or other ailments. There was a brief elucidation on why Tom can't seem to get warm, and it has something to do with him being near-fatally low on blood, which gave the Corporal a start.  
But apparently, the onslaught of medical knowledge was too much for Tom's ragged mind, and the younger man drifted off to sleep.

Though he had to admit, the story of how Colonel Mackenzie swiped a mobile roentgenogram for the regiment _did_ sound interesting, and Tom was going to have to ask the chap to repeat that story for him later.

When next Tom wakes, the sun is fully risen and bright; there is a small seepage of heat in the tent as the sun immerses it in gentle warmth. The din outside is louder- the telltale sounds of wagons being moved as the grass is rendered to earth and mud. Tom blearily watches the shadowy forms of men and horses move past the marquee – limbered wagons are filled to the brim with canvas and timber – the more fragile things are loaded into Maltese, and Tom's stomach churns when he sees a kitchen cart moves passed.

Thomas tries to imagine where the wagons are going, where the camp is being moved to and wonders if the Germans will just let the Devon's mill near their line unchecked.

Soon Tom finds himself quickly trying to turn his mind to anything but the Germans-but like the night before the worrisome images refuse to be beaten down.

Flashes of Ecousts dark streets, echoes of bullets zipping around him, and soon Tom finds himself sweating and fretting over the memories that felt more like nightmares; he looks around the marquee. Checking each and every shadow dozens of times, every pop from the stove sends jolts through him, and the movement drags pain through the morphia, and he _hates_ it.

He hates that he's alone, there is no one to talk to, and there is only the sluggishly descending vessel of blood that seeps new life into him. But it is inadequate to distract him at all from the demons clawing at his mind. Soon the fretting and sweating saps the strength that his scant rest has given him, and he drifts into the darkness that is his only salvation.

Blake is stirred again when he hears someone open the flaps of the tent. He groans, hoping that he isn't getting his wounds tended to again: the pain is growing back, and he'd rather be left alone to rest. 

Tom is immediately filled with dread when he sees Joseph holding the door open and gesturing to someone outside. The older Blake turns into the tent, and he wavers momentarily when he sees Tom watching, but the man is at work - Joe's attention quickly returns to his task.

"Put him near the stove, lads – gently now." He orders as two men baring a stretcher rushes into the tent. Tom seems to know it's Scho before he even sees the man in earnest, and what his eyes find causes something inside him to _crumble_.

He catches only a glimpse, but the man is pale, unmoving – what's happened to his kit? _And why is he bloody soaked?_

Tom tries to sit up further, to get a better look and assure himself that things weren't so bad. But he has no such luck; the young man watches as Schofield is moved to the cot across from Tom.

Lieutenant Blake stalks over to the stove, quickly shoving more fuel into the thing, and he adjusts the grate to kick out just a little more heat as the men carefully take Scho's unmoving form from the stretcher.

"Oakley find one of the surgeons or an Orderly." The elder Blake orders mere moments after the Corporal has Schofield on the bed. "We need to get water bags and blankets to warm him."

"Sir," starts a private, standing the now empty stretcher up alongside him and releasing a breath. "Shouldn't we get those wet clothes off him? He won't warm up if the blankets get wet too."

Joe nods, and Tom watches as his brother takes another look at Schofield.

"That would be the prudent thing, but – the surgeon should be left to it."

"Sir."

Tom watches all the while, trying desperately to keep his grief in check. He can see Schofield clearly: and he looks dead already.

He should have stayed – Tom should never have left him alone.

Alone… Dear God, why is Scho _alone_?

The man named Oakley makes quick progress out of the marquee, nearly barreling into a medical officer as he makes his entrance. The two men exchange brief words, and Tom doesn't quite catch them – but he hears urgency, worry, and the strangest ringing sound invades his ears as he can do nothing but stare at his friend slack-jawed.

At first, there is only one Orderly, then a second, and soon a third arrives with one of the surgeons, and Tom watches on in horror as the medics descend on Scho like ravens on a corpse.

Schofield's clothes are hastily taken from him, the soiled bandages around his head are removed and tossed aside. There is a curse from one of the doctors, and Tom is sure he hears the words 'prepare' and 'surgery' as the gathered men start to move with greater urgency.

Blake feels his whole-body freeze when one of the orderly walks by, letting Tom see a big red stain in the back of Schofield's jacket. He looks back to his friend and see's a hole in Scho's shoulder and blood painting his back.

Tom must have made some manner of noise at the sight, and soon Joe is moving to stand near his brother. He offers a comforting hand, but he says nothing for a long time, and when Tom can't bear to watch Scho being manhandled any longer, he turns his head to Joe.

The older Blake has a taught and distressed look marring his face. He is filled to the brim with tension, and there is a tinge of red darkening his skin. Tom knows the look – Joe is angry, he's upset, and he's struggling to keep it all in. And Tom would have thought that two years in France and Joe would have mastered it by now.

"Scho. . ." Tom starts, his lip quivering the moment he tries to speak, and somehow his body finds water enough to form tears. "Sc-scho is…was he -" Tom looks at his brother, pleading, frightened, and he finds it's hard to breathe.

Joe's eyes dart to his brother, and if it were possible more tension fills him, he shivers bizarrely, as if the Lieutenant were trying to stop the quiver when it was already halfway through him. A muscle in Joe's neck moves, and Tom sees his nostrils flare as he breathes. Something had gotten his brother upset, and Tom's head is already filled to the brim with horrid possibilities.

"You should have said something about the fucking girl." Joe coughs out quickly, his words are clipped, and there is a moment his shaking gets worse.

Tom releases a deep breath and wilts into the pillow. He closes his eyes a moment as relief floods him. Scho wasn't alone; Gale was with him, just as she said she'd be – but she isn't here now, and if Scho is in such a wretched state-

"Is she alright?" Tom blurts out, eyes shooting open as his mind whirls again. Joe doesn't move; he stares at Tom, his jaw locked tight, and his eyes full of dread.

"I thought you'd gone nutters – prattling on about some girl," Joe says, looking away and shaking his head before he coughs and finds a spot on the wall to stare at. "Thought you had to be nutters..."

"Don't yank me around!" snaps Tom propping himself up again and groaning at the pain that rises to meet him. His eyes sting, and he snarls to keep a sob at bay because, _dammit_ , _he should have_ **_stayed_** _!_

"Just tell me… if she's alright or not." He’s begging, and he forces himself to look at Joe through the tears that waver and fall down his face – his chest hurts. And he thinks his heart is going to crumble when Joe’s expression shifts to something remorseful, and the older Blake is at a loss for words as he manages to give a few small shakes of his head.

“I wouldn’t say that…” Joe starts his eyes looking everywhere but his brother. “She’s in… a bad way.”

Tom sniffles, and he hates that there are other people around to notice it. He nods and swallows past the lump in his throat.

“She’s been tha’ way since we fou…”

He can’t. Tom can’t say anymore, and he covers his face with his free hand a moment as it all becomes too much again. Joe’s hand finds his shoulder, and Tom moves to put his hand over his brothers.

“Look,” Joe starts, his tone changing to something much gentler, and it gives Tom the strength to lift his eyes. “They’re with the Medics now –and Mackenzie doesn’t keep the deficient ones.” Joe squeezes Tom’s shoulder again, and he manages a smile before his expression becomes more serious.

“Now, was that everyone- were you sent with anyone else?”

Tom shakes his head; he feels a jump in his chest when he realizes that Joe is about to take his leave.

“No.” he manages, grabbing onto Joe’s hand a little tighter. He looks up again; the words catch in his throat as he tries to speak, “Thank you.”

The tears flow again, and he has to cover his mouth to stop from crying. Joe shushes him and pats his shoulder before pulling his hand away and ruffle Tom’s hair in an attempt to wring something other than grief from his brother.

Joe doesn’t say anything else after that – he only gives his brother a nod and one last clap on the arm before he parts. Tom hears him bark out an order to the men who came with him: back to the woods, they need to catch up with the rest of the patrol – but he will have to catch up later and needed to speak with Colonel Mackenzie about… what they found in the wood.

The way Joe says it distracts Tom from his grief, and he moves to look at his brother for an explanation, but Joe offers nothing in the last glance he gives Tom, and in a moment both he and the men of his unit are gone again.

Tom doesn’t want to be left alone; he doesn’t want to be stuck here watching as the medics work on Schofield. But when the doctors brought in a series of bottles and tools, Blake found that he couldn’t look away.

First, the medics take great care in rolling Schofield onto his belly. Then the Surgeon sticks a needle into Schofield, seemingly straight into the hole in his shoulder. If the strangled cry from Schofield was any indication. It’s the first noise Blake hears Scho make, and it’s the first bit of tangible proof he has that Scho is, in fact, alive.

“It will pass in a moment, lad.” The Surgeon says, handing the used needle to one of the Orderlies, who quickly place the thing on a tray.

It takes Tom some time to realize that he is playing witness to a surgery – a real surgery! He always wondered how those things were done. But it was no great comfort knowing that Scho was the one the medics were poking around with.

The doctors wait a moment before going about their task. Tom can’t see what they’re up to. He is just far enough away from the throng of doctors to make it so he can’t hear exactly what’s being said. He is left watching them with great intensity, as every few seconds, he catches brief glimpses of a tool here and there.

The Surgeon calls out the name of his desired silver contraption. _Scalpels_ and _forceps_ are supplied by one man, used, then taken by another who is quick to wash the bloodied tools in steaming water before returning them to the tray where they started.

Tom watches as the Surgeon takes hold of a tool that looks far too much like scissors for his liking, and he feels his gut jump when the man plunges said tool into Schofields back. There are tiny movements of the Surgeon’s arm as he works, and Tom can no longer stomach to watch. He feels a wave of heat building in his face, and Tom busies himself a minute by valiantly trying not to cry.

“Buggering thing.” The Surgeon exclaims with a sigh as he stands fully and lets out a huff, “dug into the bone from the looks of things.”

Tom perks up at this, he feels a rush of cold cascade down his already chilled self, and he stares at the gathered medics. Is that bad? Is it…good?

The Surgeon's second attempt is more successful; there is a small jerk of his hand, a groan from Schofield, then ever so slowly, the doctor begins to pull his arm back. 

“Aha – there we have it.’ The Surgeon announces, holding up his tool to the light in triumph – Blake can see a tiny lump held in the forceps pinchers, and he doesn’t need a good view to know that it’s a German Bullet. The Surgeon inspects the thing for what seems like a long time before turning to drop the thing in a little metal pan. The clatters loudly in the tin, and the Surgeon hands his tools away.

“It looks to be whole – Sergeant, clean him up, and let him sleep it off.” The man says, examining the red that now colors his fingers from the small operation. “Tell Monroe the scapula may have fractures and that he’s Roentgen Ray might prove useful after all.”

There is a moment's pause when the Surgeon turns and finds he has an audience. Tom doesn’t know what to do or think about the whole thing, but his eyes don’t leave Schofield.

His skin is almost as white as the canvas, and the blood that trickles across his back is so bright – it makes Tom’s gut churn. The Sergeant swipes the blood away and replaces it with an equally repulsive coating of thick yellow where the red was moments before.

If Tom was expecting some word of encouragement from the medics, he is left lacking as: one by one, the men leave the marquee.

Tom can hardly wait until the last medic has left the tent before he is trying t shimmy himself into a seated position. It's all fruitless, of course – he doesn’t have the strength to lift himself, and all Tom can do is watch and weakly call out.

“Scho!” he coughs, leaning as far forward as he can, his whole frame shaking from the effort as he homes in on a tuft of brown hair poking out from under the olive blanket that Schofield now lies beneath.

“ _Scho!”_ Tom calls again, feeling a clench in his chest as his friend remains motionless on his side.

“Scho?”

The third call ends in a whimper, and Tom slumps back onto his cot, shivering from the struggle and the cold. He swallows thickly as a horrid shiver runs through him.

Asleep. The doctor must have given Schofield something to make him sleep. He did say that, didn’t he? Tom suddenly finds that his breath is coming in big gasps and forces himself to look away from Schofield, to look at anything else.

He tries to sink as far back into the cot as possible while using his one arm to pull the blanket up over his head.

It's fine – Schofield is fine, Gale is with the doctors – everything is fine.

But, if everything is fine, then why is Tom crying?

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

Despite the cancelation of his attack on the German Line, Colonel Mackenzie found himself a very busy man on the 7th Morning of April.

The weather was cold, the wind was growing, and he suspected that a last bought of winter might be on its way despite a cloudless sky. The stiffness in his bones told him so, and much to his own chagrin, the creaking of his joints was rarely wrong these days.

He lets out a long breath and sits up straight, his fatigued eyes leaving a half-written report for the first time in what felt like hours.   
All around him, there is the hurried bustle of the camp breaking down – the men were moving with good haste, in accordance to his orders, and he found himself thinking he'd best finish his breakfast and return to overseeing the preparations.

Monroe gave his approval of the Clearing Stations' new sight – some three miles further back, nestled on a farm behind a thin stand of trees. The house and barn were ransacked, but the buildings could be easily furnished for proper Officers Quarters or whatever else its best use was.

The Colonel finds himself looking over a small hand-drawn map of the region as he chaws over the biscuits and eggs that he should have eaten when they were warm.

"Colonel sir."

He hums, chasing down his hardtack with a mouthful of weak coffee. The man turns, letting out a small permission for entrance, and he turns from the door of his tent as Major Hepburn makes his entrance.

"How are the morning reports, Major?" the taller man drawls, taking a moment to adjust one of the pins on his collar.

"Very good sir – nearly half the clearing station and billets have been taken down and are being amassed. The field kitchens are being cleaned from the breakfast rounds and will probably be the last to be moved." Hepburn details, his attention seemingly elsewhere as he recounts the reports.

"The front line is shaping up nicely with the added time – I think tonight's labor parties will be able to work on the second line and communications trenches. The firing step should be finished before noon across the whole span of the Front." The man says, and Mackenzie hears some tension in Hepburn's voice, and it makes him think that there is something else going on.

"Any sign of movement from Him?" The Colonel presses as he continues to move his kit into place.

"One of the men from C Company reported some movement on the berm in the earliest hours this morning, but when Captain Sandbauch sent scouts up the hill, they only found a rather put off badger."

Mackenzie hums – something disturbing the wildlife, and he thinks it means the Bosche were sneaking about –as he hasn't sent anyone up the hill since their first night, and he's received no reports of the Captains doing so until just now.

"Did the men inspect the Badgers Setts? How extensive are they, and is there more than one?" the Colonel wonders, tugging his jacket into place. "It would be regrettable to have some of the men breaking ankles or becoming rabid if the little beasts decide to be trouble."

Whatever response the Major was preparing to give is cut short when the two men hear the much louder and more impulsive noise of footfalls rushing to a stop in front of the billet.

Hepburn steps aside from the door in a practiced motion in time for the orderlies to finish dealing with whoever is outside, and both officers are made curious when Lieutenant Blake makes a hurried entrance.

"Colonel sir." The young man barks, giving a crisp salute and taking a moment to catch his breath.

"Lieutenant Blake." He answers, taking a short step forward, head cocking to the side slightly as he takes in the sight of the young man; there is sweat on his brow and neck, his chest contracts and expands in quiet but unmistakable laboring. "Back from your patrol of Ecoust already?"

"No, Sir."

Blake was a good officer though a little too compassionate for Mackenzie's liking as his "Mother Henning" lent the man to put himself in harm's way. It could cost the Devon's a fine officer – something in short supply these days. But, that same dedication earned Blake the utmost respect of those under his order, and that was something Mackenzie could acknowledge.

Blake takes another breath; he looks distressed - a state he's been in since he first caught word of his younger brothers' presence. Though how the man learned of it before Mackenzie sent Blake's Captain to inform him was no great mystery.

"We found the other man from Lance Corporal Blakes commission-"the Lieutenant explains briefly, trepidation seeping into his voice, and Mackenzie is made more curious. He shares a small glance with Hepburn, who always looks more concerned than he ought to - as if he always expected some terrible news to come forth.

But what Lieutenant Blake says next is quite horrid indeed:

Civilians – slaughtered civilians, their bodies tossed into the river. No doubt the Boche thought the spring flooding would wash away all sign of their crimes – but neither fortune nor the Lord's will was with them – something Mackenzie should be grateful for despite this horrid revelation.

Mackenzie immediately orders one of his orderlies to summon Captain Ivins and put together another patrol. The second orderly is to disperse a message to the Medical staff – the river water is foul – stop anyone from drinking from it and be on the watch for any new cases of dysentery or colic in the men.

"We will have each of the poor souls recovered and given a proper burial." The Colonel says curtly, turning to his desk to make a note- another report must be filed: to the International Committee. "Make sure that the Chaplain is prepared – he ought to have some crosses made up by now."

"Sir," Blake says, but it is not in affirmation- he has more to report. Mackenzie pauses and turns his attention back to the young man; the Lieutenant pauses a moment and draws a deep breath to gather his thoughts.

"We also found--- a woman, sir, still alive."

"A woman?" Hepburn nearly gasps at the news, and the way Lieutenant Blake nods tells Mackenzie there is no lie, and he feels a chill settle on his shoulders. "The poor thing, having to survive so long with those brutes about, she must have hidden away in the wood."

"No sir," The Lieutenant intercedes, his eyes darting to the ground. "The woman is a nurse, an English nurse."

This brings a long bought of silence from both Major and Colonel; they stare at Blake as his words seep in. Mackenzie's mind stills a moment before flying into a flurry of possibilities while the Major's jaw works over his outrage.

"How do you know she's a nurse?" the Major blathers suddenly, the lines on his face seem to deepen as indignation and horror builds in the stockier man. "How can she be one of ours?"

Blake seems to search for words a moment; he swallows and dips his chin, eyes fixing on the ceiling.

"She was wearing a simple grey dress, with a red tippet." Blake's eyes turn to Colonel Mackenzie, his expression tense. "A red tippet with a rose sown on its back."

Mackenzie feels something go taught in his gut, and Hepburn tries to mask a gasp as they both know what this means –

"The Queen Mothers rose…" Mackenzie sighs, his chin dipping down in search for confirmation – though he needn't wonder.

"Have you contacted Doctor Monroe about this, Lieutenant?" he asks instead as the older man reaches for his helmet. Mackenzie moves for the door, and the men part to allow his passage.

"Yes, sir, Monroe is with her now," Joe responds, moving to be in lockstep with Hepburn as all three vacate the tent.

"Thank you for this report, Lieutenant Blake." The Colonel states simply, moving swiftly for the communications tent. "Return to your men and scout the town."

He pauses and turns on his heel, facing Blake with a deceptively serene expression despite the anger that roils in his gut. "We must be sure the Germans are accounted for – Ecoust must come under our control."

Blake's expression has a flash of confusion from his order, and Mackenzie is not surprised that the man would not understand the importance of the town. Still, he ought to know the implication of having an unknown force of enemy soldiers planting themselves firmly behind their lines.

But he doesn't need to explain further as the young man comes to a halt, salutes him, and quickly turns on his heel. Mackenzie watches him go, the Lieutenant calls to a small number of his men, and the group makes haste back to the forest.

"I'll tidings, I think, Harold." Whispered Hepburn as the shorter man leans in close to the Colonel. "Nothing but bad fortune since we started digging in."

Mackenzie hums before turning again and continuing to the communications tent, his gaze sliding over the rolling knolls to the hill that splits No Man's Land in two. The regiment's most significant challenge in reaching the Germans and the best shield from their prying eyes and machine guns.

"It's dreadful." Hepburn continues also eyeing the hillside with great trepidation, and he spots the wispy remains of smoke as it dissipates into the cold morning air.

Mackenzie can imagine that his companion is trying his best not to think of the fearsome battlements the enemy stays safely behind. The Germans care not if Devon's know where they are – wondering why the Second broke off its chase, no doubt.

"Once the machine gunners and artillery arrive, we will take that hill." Mackenzie declares, eyes going narrow. "If need be, the front can be pushed to the berm – but until we are at our full strength -"

He rounds on Hepburn and fixes him with a steady gaze.

"- Best we dig our own Setts to duck under."

Hepburn nods, far from assured, but the mention of Setts causes a thought, so profound, to cross his mind that is reflected in his expression, and he turns his eyes back to the hill. But Mackenzie pushed into the communications tent before the Major has any chance to share these thoughts with him.

The tent is half-empty compared to the scene he orchestrated last night – many of the tables, maps, and models were all put away and already packed. However, the telegram was still up, and two communications officers were fretting over the thing.

"Gentlemen." Mackenzie begins looking at the men who startle to their feet and salute.

"Sir!"

"Have you managed to make contact with the rest of the battalion?" he implores, looking over the machine and realizing – there is no spark in its transmitter.

"No, Sir.” The senior communications officer reports, he is only a Corporal. "We only managed brief contact with the 7th West Kent's – they are in Bihucourt, Sir." The Signaler explains, turning to a small scribbling of notes on a paper.

"Says they took up position there from the 2nd Lancs n' Yorks."

"Did they say where the Yorks were going?" Mackenzie wonders, a map of the region forming in his mind as he visualizes the troop movements.

"It was a brief connection, sir"” the corporal says, shaking his head and looking over his note; it looked like chicken scratch to the Colonel, but there must have been more to it with the way the lad was looking over the thing. The corporal scrapes at his fringe a moment, taps the paper, and decides to translate the whole conversation. 

_"7 th R/W/K to 2nd D: took over Trench at P/A. 2nd L/Y to push forward. – 8th E/S to march north on orders from Gen. E." _

There is a pause, and the Signaler turns to toss his note onto the table.

"We stopped all communications after, because..." he shivers a bit and glares at something off to the side. Mackenzie looks at the corporal expectantly.

"Because…?"

"We believe the Germans were listening in, Sir." He reveals turning to a different note, part of a report. "To my knowledge, they haven't broken our codes but . . ."

The officer pauses again, makes a face, and shakes his head as he pushes a small tin slip of paper at the Colonel – it is a morse print out. Mackenzie takes the little note and looks it over, a series of tiny dots and dashes. He knows well enough to be fully aware of what it says.

" _Good Morning Tommies underhill."_ He recites, annoyance building in his tone as he all but slaps the paper into the ground, and he fixes the young Signalers with a glare.

"When was this sent?"

"Just before dawn, Sir." The man says a little panicky, "We told the Kent's to clam up and disconnected the wireless before the ink was dry, sir."

"Tear it all down." Mackenzie orders, handing the lad the paperback before he snaps around. "The antennae, the batteries all of it."

"We are already in the process, sir." The corporal reports gesturing to the spools that will soon have all the wiring wrapped up once more.

"Then hurry it up!" Mackenzie snaps, rushing from the tent. "Major!"

He turns, looking around at the various men milling about as Hepburn hurries back to Mackenzie's side.

"Order the men to hasten their efforts – have the labor details at the line focus their efforts on the construction of dugouts." He stops and puts a hand on the Majors shoulder. "Tell the men to dig them deep and make them sturdy – use the forest if we have to, but be discreet."

Hepburn looks like he's near to fainting but nods and gives Mackenzie's arm a good clap before he turns, making his way towards the Front. The Colonel doesn't wait to watch him go. Instead, he sets his eyes on the clearing station and makes haste to speak with Monroe.

He is pleasantly surprised at the progress the clearing station has made – it would seem that Lieutenant Colonel Stefon Monroe was not exaggerating when he claimed the men had the same speed as the best of the Medical Corps Field Ambulances.

But this was small comfort as Mackenzie was about to order greater haste from the men – the taunting from the Germans has given him quite the rise, and as much as he would like to throw every slug of lead he had at the Boche… there was a bigger picture he must remain aware of.

The same picture he was made blind to in his fervor to finally break this stalemate. The reminder of his near-disastrous attack gives Mackenzie pause. Erinmore's letter burns in his memory – mocking him and the fleeting hope he allowed to grow in his heart at the first tangible sign that maybe, just maybe, they had finally been given a chance at victory.

He was so looking forward to sitting atop that hill and basking in a sunlit field of victory – the disappointment is bitter, and Mackenzie reminds himself that he is not a child – this is war, and these things happen.

The Germans were fully expecting to draw the over-eager into their maw of barbwire and machine guns. But not today – no…today the Second Devon's will live to throw their lives into this Wars hellfire – another time.

Mackenzie takes a deep breath and looks around; with most of the marquee's torn down and the horses moving, everything about the station was almost unrecognizable. There were only two tents still left standing – one where the injured lad from the 8th Surreys was and the other – a smaller tent with darker khaki sides closed up tight with orderlies standing outside the doors, that must be where Monroe was with this. . . nurse.

"There you are, Colonel."

Or perhaps Doctor Monroe was simply milling about.   
Mackenzie turns and nods to the man; he looks haggard; the shadows under his eyes are deep. In one hand, he carries a steaming cup of tea; in the other, a bucket of steaming water. He is returning from the field kitchen, as it is in the process of being torn down.

"Lieutenant–Colonel Monroe." Mackenzie greets with a small nod, and he gets the expected response.

"Please, Colonel, you know my preferences." The surgeon says that as he motions for the man to keep walking, as he is at work, Mackenzie has little control over the man.

"Of course, Doctor, but we must maintain some level of propriety." He answers back, looking at the tent.

"What is the situation with our unexpected guest?"

"So that's why you're here," Monroe mumbled with something like a sigh. "Yes, the woman is a nurse- a QAIMNS. The young private tells me that she and that other Surrey lad were found near a dam with-"

"With executed civilians, I know." Mackenzie drawls, loosening a deep sigh. "What do you think of it Monroe?"

The surgeon sighs as well, sipping his tea with a slight shrug.

"The surrey lad was shot as well, best I can guess, they ran afoul of the Germans in Ecoust, and they were tossed in the river like the civilians." There was a brief pause and as Monroe gestures to the orderlies at the head of the tent.

They give a brief salute to the colonels and open the tent.

"The corporal’s shot in the shoulder, the back – not fitting with an execution, but the woman was shot in the head."

Mackenzie pauses in the small tent – the operating theater but with most of the equipment put away save for a single cot where the nurse was resting.

He can see the fresh dressings about her head; there is a reddish flush painting her otherwise pale skin. She is dressed in nothing more than what looks like a man's nightshirt – leaving her very much indecent as the blankets have been pulled down to her waist.

"Dear Lord Monroe, you have her flayed out for all the world to see." Barks Mackenzie moving to cover the woman with a blanket, but Monroe only chuckles.

"No, believe me Harold, this is far from leaving a woman exposed." He scoffs, placing his tray on a small table. "Besides, her clothing was in ruins, and much to no one's surprise, the Quartermaster didn't have an extra dress laying about – so I've done the best I can with what I have."

Mackenzie frowns; Monroe is right, of course, he's right, but he moves to cover the woman none the less. Monroe sighs and carefully lifts one of the woman's arms to allow Mackenzie his gentlemanly sensibilities.

"I need to stitch up this wound here on her arm." The doctor declares, pulling a stool over to the woman's bedside. He gets to work immediately, a wash of iodine, and then he starts to stitch with ease.

"Her overall state is quite poor," Monroe says, looking over his shoulder as Mackenzie stays quiet. "A significant loss of blood, the wound on her head is the oldest, and there is infection. Someone tended to her at some time prior. They tried to get ahead of it by packing the gutter wound with Bismuth iodine. Unfortunately, all it seems to have done is scald the skin. I have given her a tetanus anti-toxin and some morphia."

"Is there anything else that can be done?" The Colonel wonders, watching as, stitch by stitch, the Surgeon pulled the woman's arm closed again.

"Not much of anything until we've set everything up, again." Monroe hisses, gently poking at the corner of the woman's mouth. "There is palsy of the facial muscles and along the left side of the body, could be swelling from the wound, but I suspect she's suffered a stroke."

"And what of. . ." Mackenzie wonders, leading off as he is sure Monroe knows his implications.

"No sign of any such sins," Monroe says quickly, resting the nurse's arm over the top of the blanket. "Worst of it is the gunshot."

Mackenzie nods stiffly; the woman's presence has his mind racing with dozens of questions and an equal number of possible scenarios. But he needs to focus on the ones that are more pressing to the current situation:

"When do you think the injured can be moved?" he presses, not forgetting his reason for walking all this way.

Monroe makes a face, inquisitive, and studies the Colonel a moment before slowly rising to his full height.

"I would prefer they not be disturbed until I have accommodations set up for them at the new site." Monroe pauses, washing his hands and looking at the Colonel squarely. "Is there any particular reason that you want them to be moved sooner?"

"Aside from the reasons that we are moving to the station." Mackenzie retorts, folding his hands behind his back. "I think it would be best to have them taken out of danger, is all."

"Moving them, prematurely can put them in greater danger if not careful." Monroe counters, he opens his mouth to speak more, but someone comes into the tent.

A young man, one of the Devon's youngest, and Mackenzie knows this lad well.

"Branson." He chirps, raising a brow as the boy is caught startled by the Colonels' presence, and he struggles to give a salute around a strange mat of fur held in his arms. "What is this?"

"O-o-oh well, Colonel Sir." The lad starts, stuttering a fair bit, and Mackenzie suspects that it is lingering fear over the last time Mackenzie spoke face to face with the boy.

"Yes, Private Branson." Mackenzie presses, raising a brow and ensuring his tone remains placid.

"Well, I-I thought that the Lady might be cold, so I…" the lad made a gesture and searched for words. "So I brought this out of my pack, thinking it might…help?"

Mackenzie looks somewhat bemused and holds up his hand to inspect the mass in the boy's hands. Branson pauses only a moment before handing the thing over.

"I-its Mink Sir, M-my sister in the Yeomanry bought it for me."

Mackenzie hums and nods in approval.

"I didn't know your sister was a Herring Private." He quips, casting a glance at the young man, and Branson seems to puff up the slight.

"This is a good coat." Mackenzie adds quickly, "But this is Beaver." The Colonel explains, straightening the thing and moving to drape it over the nurse. "This will do much better than mink to keep you dry and warm."

"Thank you, Private Branson," Monroe states, looking at the sight with an expression of slight annoyance. "That is very thoughtful of you. I am sure the missus will appreciate it."

The Private nods; there is a small glow of pride in his face at the praise – he is a simple lad in that way, and he gives a crisp salute before excusing himself. Mackenzie uses the interruption to recollect his thoughts.

Meanwhile, Doctor Monroe quickly busies himself, there is much work that needs doing, and he would like to make the trip to see the new site before he moves his patients. From the corner of his ear, Monroe hears the Colonel release a sigh and looks up in time to see the other man runs a hand through his hair, swiping his helmet back until it nearly falls from his head.

"You’re expecting trouble from the Hun.” Monroe declares, watching the Colonel closely. Mackenzie doesn’t say a word, but Monroe can see the man's back go stiff, and he slows in his movements.

It’s all the answer Monroe needs.

“I suppose, if the situation were reversed, I’d cause trouble too.” the doctor starts taking a long drink from his canteen. The Colonel remains silent and stares at the olive canvas before him.

“I would have caused trouble already.” He says, voice low.

“Then the Fritz have are already in error.” Monroe declares, drawing in air to puff his chest. A hollow play at bravado. “I intend to take every advantage from that error, Colonel. And will make ready to have the patients moved at the earliest convenience.”

The Colonel doesn’t respond at first, and Monroe has to watch the man closer to see if he hadn’t turned to stone; it was odd to see Mackenzie left at a loss for words. Though Monroe could suspect it had something to do with the last few day's events.

“Very good,” the Colonel says after an overly long pause. “Though you should also make ready to have more patients when the time comes.”

“I would implore you not to concern yourself with what falls under my jurisdiction,” Monroe says firmly; he watches the Colonel for his reaction when the man doesn’t immediately fly into indignation – Monroe confirms his suspicions, a sad state. To be defeated despite the sword having yet to fall.

Mackenzie finally releases a large sigh and nods; it’s slow, but Monroe can see a fractional easing of his shoulders, and the man manages to stand a tad bit taller at having that small weight lifted. A burden Monroe feels settle firmly over his own shoulders as the two men part, and he makes his way to see his other patients.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know it feels like a party foul to have an intermission after the first part! But alas, my writers block has yet to be hammered into dust and I find myself struggling with the upcoming parts, so I give you this instead!


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

By the time Joseph and his men return to the Devon's encampment, the sun is arching into the afternoon.

They found a number of dead Germans; the first was a lone man, lying dead near the bridge where Lieutenant Blakes men first entered the town. But a greater number of them were found later, lying where they fell: scattered around a collapsed building near the town's industrial channel. A quick glance over the other side of the channel revealed several dead British Soldiers, and Blake's men spent some time debating over whether they should find a way to cross the channel and bury their brethren.

Most curiously, there was one dead Tommy on their side of the channel, and Blakes men insisted on giving him some manner of proper burial. They had to settle for laying the man down on a charred table and covering his body with soiled drapes, as they didn't have the luxury of time, and they still had a whole town to scout through.

It was not the most thorough search, they didn't have time to look into every place where smoke drifted from the rubble, but they did find one more dead German. Some poor bloke who died of injury in the night. Though Joe thinks he's the only one who felt any compassion for the poor Fritz, besides the mans still living companion. 

Who was so downtrodden that the man didn't put up any resistance whatsoever. Same as the three others that the patrol found huddled inside what was once a school.

Those three were all sick from an overindulgence of French Spirits. They were a miserable bunch, hobbling along with their heads hung low. The youngest of them, a red-headed boy who was thin as he was tall, quietly sniffling from fright. And Joe knew no German to settle the lad.

Prisoners were the last thing they needed to deal with right now. But Joe couldn't bring himself to put them to death. They surrendered without a fuss and haven't been any trouble; his men didn't find a single weapon on them for Heaven's sake!

It did the Lieutenant little good to fret over it now. Their fates were no longer in his hands anyway.

Instead, as Joe forced his increasingly stiff legs to keep moving, he tries desperately to stop from fretting over the other things he cannot control. Namely, his dear brother.

The ordeal has sapped Joe's strength and frayed his nerves. To be out here, leading his men in this patrol was…difficult. Joe found himself struggling to make even the most sensible decisions – it was dangerous. His men were being put at greater risk because he couldn't get his head on straight.

The lack of sleep and food was certainly no help on that front. Joe had seen many a dying man during this war, and to say it didn't bother him would be a mistruth.

But nothing,  _ nothing  _ has rattled him so profoundly than seeing Tom in such a morbid state. Covered head to toe in mud or blood, and when cleaned up, he was white as snow and just as cold. Seeing Tom, his baby brother, so frail was the single most horrendous thing Joe has witnessed.

He was held in fear and doubt for the long hours of the night, unable to find a moment's peace, even in the brief times when Tom's eyes drifted open. They were short episodes; most of what Joe saw had Tom blink blearily at the darkness, then nod off again.

Usually, the episodes were flanked on one side or the other by Tom suddenly shivering or thrashing around. Far too many times, Tom's breathing would stall, and far too many times, Joe found himself wondering: what would he tell mom?

Something connects with Joe's boot, and the Lieutenant is snapped from his thoughts as he stumbled forward, struggling to keep his feet.

Then there is a firm grip on Joe's arm, and he's pulled upright once more. The jostling makes his head spin while his stomach churns.

"You'll come a cropper, carrying on like that."

Joe lets out a breathy chuckle.

God Bless Lance Corporal Townsend.

"Oh, I don't know." Joe starts, straightening himself up. "I think being a cropper would be a nice change of pace from all this."

Townsend scoffs, his dark eyes flowing over the forest around him while making a motion somewhere between a shrug and a nod.

"Can't say the same; been a good day by my reckoning." He retorts, reaching to scratch at one of his large ears. "We didn't go over the top, got a nice walk in the woods, went souvenir hunting, and even caught us some Jerries!" he explains, shoving a thumb over his shoulder to motion at the four Germans who stood in the center of the Devon's formation.

The younger ones were already quietly asking the older ones what the British were doing, but the oldest of the prisoners – a Captain wouldn't answer. Joe watched them a moment, frowning as he started to think that they should have seen more than just six of the bastards.

"Fag?" Townsend asks, shoving a cigar,  _ an actual cigar, _ at Blake; its sweet smoke distracts Joe a moment as it stirred feelings of  _ home _ and  _ father _ in his head. The Lieutenant looks to Townsend and grabs the thing between his fingers, taking a tentative drag from the cigar. He can't stop the deep moan from escaping him at its earthy flavors – on the second, deeper draw; there was something nuttier, but also the souring taste of wet hay. But he didn't mind it as his chest is quickly filled with a gentle tingling sensation.

"Where'd you get this?" Joe asks, finding his sense enough to hand the cigar back to Townsend.

"Guess." He answers curtly, the mischievous glint returning, and he taps one of the deeper pockets in his trench coat, a small sound of knocking wood rises from the muddied leather.

Lieutenant Blake knew full well that each man on the patrol had pockets full of trinkets from their little foray into town. "Told you, it was a good day."

Joe blinks again and takes a deep breath- he must be out of it because the more he tries to recall the patrol, the more its finer details fade away. Almost like the raid was a dream and not what he'd spent most of the day doing.

"Well, I can't share your feelings on the mood of the day, I'm afraid." Joe counters as he turns and starts to walk again. "A good raid or no."

Townsend hums at Joe's side and tuts around a mouthful of smoke.

"It's what you get for running off with Lieutenant Richards in the wee hours of the morning."

Joe fixes Townsend with a look and raises his brow.

"I was with Richards for less than five minutes."

"Oh?" Chirps the man, a much more mischievous light flaring in his eyes. "Doesn't sound like a good time – that his fault, or yours?"

Joe pauses and blinks, his mouth hanging open a moment as he catches the Corporals meaning. There must have been a funny look on his face because Townsend shakes his head and puts his hands up in surrender.

'I'm only having a go." He sniggers, waving his hand above his head as if to whisk the conversation aside. "But what did he drag ya off for anyway? Did it have something to do with the Captains all getting hauled out?"

Joe doesn't answer right away – as he wasn't sure how much should be said.

"A runner came in last night." He starts, swallowing thickly as his mind is forced onto the one thing he wanted to keep it away from.

Townsend hums and nods, taking a deep draw of his cigar.

"And that's why the push was called off." He states matter-of-factly, his eyes inspecting the cigar as he seems to mull over something. "Figured it had to be something like that – can't think of anything else that could stop Mackenzie once he's on the bit."

Townsend pauses and eyes Joe up and down, "What's the runner got to do with you?"

Joe sighs and scratches at the scruff around his jaw; he hasn't been able to speak of it, his nerves get all bundled up, and his voice gets caught every time he tries – it's pitiful since Tom is still keeping on. The Lieutenant sucks in a deep breath and feels a jab of frustration.

"The runner is from the Surrey's." he spits out, the words jumbled in his attempt to beat the knot in his throat. Townsend blinks, a thoughtful look crossing his features as he parses that bit of information. It takes him a moment to put the pieces together, and his expression turns dour.

"Your brother."

Joe can only nod, and he takes Townsend's cigar when it's silently offered to him; the man didn't need to ask anything else, he was a sharp like that. Or perhaps he was merely more sensible than some of the men who would require no less than a full report of Joe's personal happenings – before their snoopiness would be stated.

Blake and Townsend spend the remainder of the trip in silence, sharing puffs of the corporals pilfered cigar and gazing as the desolate field where just hours prior. A veritable village of tents had been. Now all that remained was trodden grass and wandering paths of mud.

As they went along, Joe felt like every blink brought him to a new place with new people. One moment they are trailing along the path; the next, he is face to face with a sentry.

The man directs Blake and his men further on, through the wood to the next field over. He blinks again, and Joe finds himself distracted when they pass near the clearing station. The tent Tom was in still remained, sitting alone in the field.

A million questions immediately bombard Joe's psyche, and he must fight to keep himself from darting across the field to see what's happened. But a steadying hand from Corporal Townsend brings Joe's panic to heel, and he manages to keep focused. 

It's a good thing, too, as the narrow paths carved through the forest floor are far from smooth, and he would like to avoid careening into the ground if he could manage it. There is something new in the woods to distract him as well. As they near the encampment, Joe can smell the scent of cut trees, and he sees places where the forest has begun to shrink.

Another blink and next, Blake knew they'd wandered into the new camp. It throws him for a bit of a loop, the feeling that he'd just been walking this path, getting ready to turn in for the night after a day of digging the fresh trenches.

Then he is speaking to Captain Mackdanell, who is less than pleased to see the prisoners they found. But he quickly found work for the Jerries to do: burying the dead civilians the Devon's fished out of the river. 

With the prisoners gone and the patrol over, Blake moves to dismiss the men. Only for Mackdanell to belay that order and send the whole lot back to the Front – where the rest of the platoon was working in a labor party.

The men met the order with many groans and complaints, but Blake only waved them off, and they were back to wandering through the woods.

It made some sense, Townsend muttered to him on the trip back. The patrol had spent most of the day wandering around Ecoust.

Sergeant Doohan was very much put off at the idea of going from one job to another, seeing as the patrol had run the risk of fighting in the town.

"But the men in the trenches had the risk of fighting in the fields. So I'd say it was a reasonable order from the captain." Townsend retorts, and Joe felt a string of tension grow along the center of his skull as the two men were fixing to butt heads again.

"You are the type of lad who thinks that Austria had a point in starting all of this."

"Well, if you look at what was happening there at the time-"

"Gentlemen, please." Snaps Blake squeezing the bridge of his nose as he pauses to look them in the eye. "We are not starting this argument again, not right now."

His tone must have been more severe than he intended, as the rest of the walk was made in absolute silence, and he felt a pang of guilt in his chest at souring what little mirth the men had managed to dredge up, in what was a very dire situation for them all.

He wallowed in this feeling all the way to the trenches. He is directed, not to the Front line but away from the holding pen, to help finish connecting a communications trench between the front and second lines.

Joe goes about burying himself in work, taking a pickaxe, and helping the men carve the earth away in his best attempt to get it done as quickly as was possible. Each impact with the soil sent sparks of pain jumping up from the fresh blisters and disturbed calluses on his hands. Every time he wrenches the pickaxe from the ground, his arms and back ache.

Soon he's shed his helmet, his kit is left to lay on the bank, and his outmost layers hang at his waist, letting the cold air licks at his bare arms. He carves at the soil, ripping at pieces of sod and soil down from the ridge before him, sending some of it cascading down to collect around his legs until his whole front stained the same white as the chalk. It's safer than trying to down from ground level, even if it is a great deal messier.

It doesn't take long for him to be dripping with sweat, and Joe knows his pace is slow and tottering as his strength is flagging, but the combination of pain and cold keeps his mind focused on the here and now, so he refuses to let up. 

That is until he found himself being gently hauled back by Doohan, someone wanted to see him, and the men needed to dig out the debris – so Joe is shuffled around to the second line for a moment's rest. He stumbles away from the work party. Someone, Oakley, he thinks, slaps his brodie back on his head, and Joe gets a sinking feeling as his attempts to stay focused have made his men worry.

"Keeping on Lieutenant?"

Joe blinks, and he manages a small smile as a familiar blonde sunk into a crouch near the wall of fresh trench.

"As best as one can, I think." Is his curt response, and Joe slides his brodie off once more. His is arms shake from a lack of strength, and soon he is leaning against the damp chalk, trying his best not to breathe too hard.

Perhaps that is why Richards fixes him with a concerned look and quickly moves to offer him a flask. But before Joe can grab the thing, his fellow Lieutenant thinks better of it and replaces the canteen with a misshapen chunk of bread next to an equally distorted mass of dry, pinkish-red meat.

"Looks like you need it more than me."

Joe snatches the food with the haste of a starving man, carving mouthfuls of food like a ravenous dog. He hadn't realized just how hungry he was until now, the hunger having faded into another gnawing ache inside of him. 

At first, he doesn't notice how stiff the bread is or how the over-salted pork saps every bit of moisture from his mouth. And Joe quickly finds the stuff is nearly impossible to swallow. He makes a disgruntled sound in his throat and paws at Richards for his canteen, hitting him with increasing rapidity until the man surrenders his water.

"It tastes like an old shoe." Joe grouses the moment there is room enough to speak. Richards chuckles and makes a noise of agreement.

"It was in a better state this morning." The man says apologetically. Joe wipes a stray dribble of water from his chin and makes a noise at seeing the mess he's made of himself.

"So was I." Blake mutters, leaning back to get a gander at the giant smear of white that now painted his front. A breeze chose this time to careen down the trench, and all at once, Joe feels frozen solid. Richards hums again and reaches over to help Blake get his uniform put back in place.

"Is it that bad?" Richards asks, leaning back and cleaning his hands with a handkerchief. Joe sighs, leaning back and looking anywhere bit but his friend.

"I suppose not." He says finally, "Not looking back at it anyway."

"It was at the time," Richards says with a sigh, and he turns to look at whatever Joe was focusing on. For a long time, they sit and watch the rest of Blake's men work on the trench. It's a nice distraction as the thinning wall of dirt gives way to reveal another group of men from the other side. There is a brief rise of cheer, and the men laugh, shake hands and clap backs.

Apparently, there was some competition between the two groups as they started to argue over who did more work with the digging. And it just as quickly became a competition to see who could finish the cleaning. The pace of shoveling increased considerably to clear the detritus away – their task nearly complete.

"Captain Ivins wants us to start carving in dug-outs, cut-in-covers, and the like," Richards says quite suddenly, and Joe hums, rubbing at his arms to bring more warmth into them. He mulls over a possible answer, but now that he's stopped moving, he's finding it exceedingly difficult to say or do much of anything.

He lets his eyes close, and he immediately feels his head dip towards his chest, the sudden movement gives him a jolt, and he's awake again. Blake hears Richards chuckle beside him, and there's a pat on his back.

"We should be getting relieved soon," Richards says, patting Joe's back a couple of times before he settles back against the wall. "Hopefully, there will be some hot nosh when we get back- it's bloody cold out again."

Joe hums before leaning back and letting his eye close again. He sits and allows the sounds of moving earth to lull him to a near sleeping state. Richards quieted down too, seemingly content with having given Joe some food and drink.

For the first time, Joe notices that the birds have gone quiet; he supposed it's because the sun is starting to set, and there aren't any bugs for them to feast on yet. Besides, Ben is right, it's been getting colder, and the wind is stronger. He hates to think that winter isn't through with them yet – but there is a new rumble of thunder sounding off overhead, so maybe…rain?  _ No _ .

Joe startles from his light slumber, moving from the wall in a crouch as his head cranes skyward. All around him, the men fill with tension. Tools are replaced with helmets, and everyone starts to scramble for their weapons as the air fills with a distinctive droning.

Richards is the first to take control of the situation, his whistle sounding to bring the men to order as the droning gets louder and louder. Joe stands, his own whistle in hand and helmet back in place when the first shell hits.

It's close to the front line; its impact shakes the ground, and the sounds of shouting erupt from the Front. Joe feels the shell shake his very bones, and he feels a rush of cold start in his veins; he falters – most of his men do not have their weapons handy, is the trench they just finished an Up Trench or a Down?

They hadn't even started any dug-outs, and Joe hadn't paid attention to where they were being put in –

Shit.  _ Shit. _

"Take cover, men!" Richards shouts as he edges his way closer down the trench, to the Front Line. His order is nearly drowned out by the increasing hail of shells that rain down around them.

The shrieking, whistling shells are moving closer and closer, the noise and impacts growing, and Joe finds himself dragging his unarmed men to the second line, where they can re-arm, where they will be safe.

But just as he has the men out of the communications trench, one shrieking noise emerges from the storm of sound. Joe screams for his men to get down. He gets to see the shell slam into the earth at the head of the intersection before him.

There is a flash of fire before a wave of earth rains down on the men. The force of the shell knocks Joe back, he feels something brush past the side of his face, and there is a rush of heat following. Ringing has filled his head, and everything feels sluggish – the shell was almost too close. He starts to pick himself up from the ground, and the first thought that pushes past the ringing hits him with a wave of ice.

_ " _ Tom. . ." he breaths, panic filling his voice as he realizes some of the thunderous shells are landing beyond the second line. "Tom!"

He is scrambling, trying to get to his feet, and he can't see past the narrow walls of the trench that will lead him to his brothers' side – he is pushing past men. Joe can't seem to hear them as he starts to pick up speed. 

More shells land around him, the explosions pulse through him, making it impossible to stay on his feet – then there is a sudden weight hitting him in the back, slamming him into the ground again.

"Blake!"

Richards – it Richards, screaming into his ears, and Joe is trashing – trying to get free because Richards doesn't understand –

"It's my brother!" he snaps in desperation, all the while trying to claw his way free, to the point where Richards has to pin one of Joe's arms behind his back.

"Get ahold of yourself, man!" Ben snaps, dragging Joe back to his feet, then shoving him into the wall. "You think the Germans are only going to shell us?" he shouts, knotting his hands into Joe's jacket and shaking him again. "You want to keep your brother safe? Then hold the line!"

Joe blinks; Ben's words return him to his senses through the icy fear does not abate. Richards sees the change in Joe's face; he feels the minuscule loss of tension as Joe's mind files back into its proper place.

"You have a job, Lieutenant!" the man snaps once more, thumping Joe in the chest, and Joe manages to nod once. Then Richards is gone, his voice ringing out over the din of falling shells, ordering the men to take up arms and move to the Front.

Joe swallows thickly, adjusts his helmet, and turns back to his men. They are watching him, Sergeant Doohan doing the job Blake should have been doing – but the chain of command is quickly restored as Blake orders the group to the holding pen, and with luck, the men can re-arm themselves. Because as he and the men push further, Joe could hear crackling gunfire over the growing number of competing screams.

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

Schofield wakes up to screams and shellfire. A jolt rampages through his person as a flash of fire briefly illuminates the tent. His ears ring, and fire erupts all over his battered self as instinct causes him to roll off the cot.

He finds that he hasn’t the strength to stand, and Schofield crumples onto the frigid ground with a surprised gasp. The marquee tilts around him, and Schofield is sure he’s going to vomit. His head pulses with a thunderous pain in time to his heartbeat, and Schofield is left helpless on the ground, the fright that gave him strength fading in an instant.

Something pierces the ringing in his ears, it chases the panic from his mind as he feels – he knows those screams.

 _Blake_.

Schofield has long known, differences between a cry of terror and one of pain – and the shrill sounds fuel him once more. Schofield crawls to the sound clawing at the cot to drag himself up.

“Blake!”

Schofield's hands seeking out Tom, the boys screaming gives way to a panicked blubbering, and Schofield finds himself being scrabbled at in fervent desperation.

“Am I hit? I’ve been hit!” Blake chatters on, his fingers tangling in Schofield's shirt before the older man takes hold of his hand. There is barely any light in the marquee but Schofield knows what to look for and he see’s nothing amiss.

“You’re alright.” He declares, bumping his forehead against Blakes. “You’re ok.”

Blake is just beginning to quiet, his cries becoming a whimper when another shell lands near the tent.

There is a horrid moment, where the light of the explosion illuminates the tent and Schofields gets to see as the blast wave sends the wall of the marquee pulsing inward with great force, and not a moment later he and Blake are both sent sprawling to the ground.

More pain ignites in Schofield's body, he screams, but he can’t hear anything as the ringing returns to his ears. There is a taste of blood in his mouth, and as he lays on the ground, the only thing ensuring Schofield that he is still alive is the cold that invades his body through the thin material of his underclothing.

He becomes aware of a weight against his legs, and Schofield struggles to move – the weight is moving, thrashing around, and he hears Blake’s renewed screams of panic, but this time, there is pain in his voice.

Ice strikes at Schofield's chest, and he moves as best he can, trying to pull himself free from under Blake, as both they and the cot Blake was laying on were tossed aside.

“Blake!” he calls in terror, moving enough with his one arm to sit up and latch onto his friend's shirt. Hands immediately grab his wrist with an iron grip, and the screaming gives way once more.

“Scho – Oh God, Scho!” Blake cries, his hands pawing at Schofield as the older man again struggles to move. Schofield covers Blake with his own body as more shells shake the land- they are further off, but that is no comfort when the shells can return in an instant.

“My leg!” Blake shouts suddenly, trying to reach for his aggrieved limb with one hand while the other refuses to relinquish its hold. Schofield doesn’t need any additional prompting, and he looks to where Blake’s hand paws.

But after a moment of searching, the flickering light allows him to see the metal rings and leather straps entraping Blake's leg. He stares and stares, but he cannot see any blood – there is a moment where he is stuck, wondering just how or why Blake's leg was put in the thing, to begin with.

He pushes it aside; there isn’t time for that now. Schofield turns to face Blake, as he is nearly laying atop him, but his answer is cut short when another shell explodes nearer to the tent.

Schofield hears screaming – men, and the horrid noises that horses make when they shriek. His attention is grabbed by it, and he takes a moment to look out at the shadowy figures that move frantically around in the firelight.

A new sound begins to pepper the tent– a hail of earth and shrapnel. Schofield instinctively wraps himself around Blake – who, in his panic, was screaming once more.

“Your alright-!” Schofield finds himself shouting, managing to wrench his hands-free to tangle it in Blake's hair, “You're alright, Blake – everything is fine.” He tries to assure the younger man, but his heart is thundering in his chest, and his body feels like it’s one fire – they are not safe here, huddled on the ground. But there is nowhere to go.

Schofield does what he can for Blake, but there is extraordinarily little he can manage beyond stroking the lads knotted hair and repeatedly whispering that it was fine.

The shells will pass.

They aren’t hit.

But none of it seems to help Blake any – with every shriek and shock, he is screaming and crying anew.

His ministrations are interrupted seconds later when an Orderly bursts into the marquee, Schofield flinches and whirls his head around to see who was intruding. Some small part of him recoiled. He was expecting the man to be a German, who had come all this way just to end them both.

But his fears are unfounded – mostly because the poor man trips over some overturned cot and ends up falling to the ground, followed by a string of very British curses flying into the air as he tries his best to reach the far end of the marquee.

“Is everyone alright!” he asks, moving around in the shadows, soon arriving at Blake and Schofield's side. “Are you injured?”

Schofield answers that he isn’t hurt, but the response is lost under yet another shell. There is no light from an explosion but the marquee shutters. The orderly throws himself over the pair and curses again as Blake’s screaming is given new fuel.

Much to Schofield's shock, the orderly snatches Blake by the collar and shouts something incoherent at him– the sound of a slap rings out in the darkness as Blake’s screams are cut off.

“Put a lid on it, lad!” the man shouts, sounding enraged, Schofield feels the same. “What are you crying for? Nanny’s not here to coddle you!” the man releases Blake with a shove rising in the same motion. He grabs a blanket from somewhere in the darkness, draping it over the men before striking Blake once more, but lightly and he keeps his hand on the boys cheek.

“You keep it down in here – I have more men than you to watch over now!”

The orderly fixes Schofield with a look but says nothing before he suddenly gets up and starts scrambling out of the tent. He manages to right cots and clear a path all the while as he moves to answer a new series of screams from elsewhere in the chaos beyond the marquee.

There is a long pause before Schofield hears Blake start to sniffle, and the older man feels a pull in his chest.

“You’re alright, Blake.” He whispers once more, leaning down to lay beside Blake. He whispers into the younger’s hair, his body starting to shake as his strength is gone and the cold seeps back in again. Blake seems to beyond words; he is shaking and sniffling but otherwise seems unharmed. More shells fall, maybe another five or so around the tent before the thunder echoes into silence.

There is nothing more Schofield can do, and he doesn’t have the strength to try. He wilts on the ground; the blanket draped over them brought no reprieve from the harsh cold beneath him and the stove near by was no longer throwing heat from its confines.

Despite this, his exhaustion is deep enough to pull Schofield into sleep.

He is roused sometime later; there are hands-on him, voices speaking in hushed but frantic tones. Then the pain returns, and Schofield howls at its unwanted presence. He is shushed and quickly deposited on a cot then covered in a blanket.

Someone is speaking to him, but he cannot make out the words – he hears Blake give a similar shout of shock and pain, and Schofield manages to open his eyes long enough to see his friend being taken off the ground. He takes a moment to look around; there is a soft light around as Medical Corpsmen move around with lanterns covered in dark drapery to mute its light.

The cots have been righted, and a great many of them are now filled. This is the moment when Schofield notices the cacophony of screaming and groans as the injured are piled into the tent and sorted.

Kit is discarded into piles that are brought out by orderlies; the injured are evaluated and treated with great haste. Outside, Schofield catches sight of a horse-drawn ambulance, being filled to the brim with those in need of surgery.

He cannot imagine where they are going. Was this not the clearing station? He doesn’t get the time to ask as he is given a fresh dose of morphia and sent to sleep once more.

Morning comes late, very late by his reckoning.  
Schofield groans as the pain is back to nag at him again, but now too is the fire beneath his flesh. He feels as if he’s been set ablaze, and everything is heavier than it should be as he tries to open his eyes and fails.

His ears still work however, and he notes that it much quieter now; there is less screaming, but still much groaning. The orderlies talk in quieter, calmer tones as they go about their ministrations.

Someone comes to his bedside and lifts his head, making Schofield feel like he’s been tossed into a maelstrom. Something is pressed to his lips, and a desperate thirst he had not recognized makes itself known.

He doesn’t taste the drink; all he knows is that it is slightly warm, and his body tries to follow it as the cup is taken away far too soon. Someone pats his shoulder and assures him that he will be getting moved as soon as the ambulance is back.

What a strange thing to say.

Schofield can’t make any sense of it, he doesn’t try to – he knows it does no good to dwell. He should take the time he had to rest and prepare: for movement.

He knows too that being moved is one of the worst parts of being injured. To be jostled when the simple act of being puts one in agony.

“S-Scho…”

The sound of his name sends a jolt through him. Schofield’s eyes spring open with the ease they are usually graced with, and he turns his head to the voice.

Blake.

There is a jump in Schofield's chest, and he feels his mouth pull into a smile; Blake is there – he is safe. Despite the tear stains on his face and the scratchiness in his voice. Despite the injuries his friend endured. . . Blake is safe.

He nearly cries; Schofield feels the tears sting his eyes, and he tries to blink them away when the display brings tears to Blake’s eyes. The two can do very little but stare at one another and bask in the wonder that they’ve survived.

They are not safe, not by a long shot, but they are here, and Schofield can do nothing but watch after Blake as the sound of horses comes to the tent and the orderlies start to gather the injured. Schofield wants to ask where they are going or what is happening, but he can’t seem to make his voice come forth. His jaw works, and he feels the pain in his throat, but no sound is made.

Even when he is grabbed and moved onto a stretcher, the rush of pain that comes with the movement is almost enough to summon a scream from him. But Schofield manages to keep it under wraps; he thinks it is for Blake's sake.

Blake has undoubtedly suffered through great dread over the course of this mission, and Schofield would do all in his meager power to prevent causing any more strife.

He is moved to the ambulance and put on a shelf higher up – he just lays there, letting the pain wash over him in waves. Luck is with him, as Blake is moved onto the shelf next to him and the canvas is pulled closed.

There are deep shadows across Blake's face, a muted sheen cover his usually clear eyes, and he stares at Schofield, lost, petrified. The older man knew it would happen eventually and the only thing he can do is try to be there for Blake. Be there and comfort him in the hopes that things will be better for Blake than they were for him.

Schofield blinks, and looks to Blake again.

He moves his arms; stretching is across the space between them.

_I am here: I’m ok._

Blake does not hesitate to do the same; his hand shakes as the younger man intertwines his fingers with Schofields and squeezes with all the strength he has. The glare in Blake's eyes melts away by a small margin, and a man emerges from the frightening beast.

Schofield manages a smile and nods to the younger man. Blake looks like he wants to speak, but all words are shoved aside as the ambulance jerks and begins its journey.

Between the rain, shellings, and the fires caused by those shellings – much of the field has softened to cloying muck. The horses, weakened by a long winter and the previous day's work. Struggle to pull the ambulance steadily.

Every shudder of the wooden wheels, every bump and jut from its brittle wheels sends up a chorus of groans and gasps from the ragged souls within.

The trip is exhausting, and Schofield finds himself back on that dreadful train after Theipval. It was an experience Schofield thought long forgotten, but as the trip rumbled on, so did the moments of that most dreadful day.

Then quite suddenly, the trolly comes to a stop and the process begins again. Blake is taken first, then Schofield follows after. The movement and pain sends him reeling as before, but he manages to keep his senses enough to track where he is being taken.

Into one tent, his tag is read, then he is waved off. He is carried passed lines of cots and out the back of the marquee, the orderlies turn and walk. The cold of the day bites at Schofeild and he shivers at the wind that wisks all warmth from him. He tires to keep his mind off it by looking around, first he notices is a rooftop and he turns to see a farmhouse.

It is an old thing. Nearly square in shape with a steep anda dark slate roof covering pale field stones cast in morter. Faded blue shutters are firmly closed over two small windows. One beside the door, the other resting above it.

  
Schofield starts briefly when he thinks he see’s Blake being carried into the building through its old wooden door. But he is wisked into another tent before he is sure of anything. He welcomes the warmth that greets him as he is finally put down on a new cot and covered with a clean blanket. An orderly places a warm water bag beside him and Schofield is given another drink.

Looking around the maquee, Schofield briefly wonders if they’ve made the journey to a proper Clearing Station, or a field hospital. But the idea is quickly banished when he finds that there are only Devonshire soldiers milling around and of course the distinct lack of any VADs what so ever.  
He seems to have been placed in a tent with other, lightly injured men. He breathes a sigh of relief and wilts into the cot, he lets his eyes closed and is prepared to fall asleep again when his hand comes to rest over his left breast.

His tin is missing.

Schofield is awake again, he picks his head up and fights the wave of nausea as he stares at the spot where the tobacco tin usually rests. There is a box beside his bed, but it is not there – panic strikes at him for a moment, but he had to remind himself: The orerlies took all of his effects and they will probably return them when the time is right.

Schofield made sure to carve his name into everything he keeps on his person, he knows it will be brought back. But some part of him rages and worries over the tins current absence.

He wants to see his girls. . .

The thought causes a knot to form in his throat and tears sting his eyes. Schofield troes to dry with his hand, hissing when he is met with the abrasive texture of guaze metting his skin. He stares at his hand and is reminded of the festering wound that rests beneath the dressings.

The fire that burns in his body originates from that cut and whatever calm he’d managed previously is taken away as he is slowly reminded of everything. Schofield frowns impressively at his hand and for a moment he thinks the flesh squirms beneath his scrutiny.

Frustration strikes at him and Schofield puts his hand down and he forces his eyes closed: he can’t fret over these things – _rest_. He needs to rest: and it finds him quickly.

His most recent bought of sleep is the longest yet, Schofield isn’t sure how long he rests, but when he is dragged back to the waking world, he feels like it is the next day but he can’t be sure. He feels terrible, his limbs and chest heavy: as if his blood was made of lead and he feels sand in his throat.

All of his strength is gone and beneath the pain and thrums from his battered form: is hunger. He is nauseous and Schofield tries to rub at his throat but finds he can’t pick up his arm. He must make some manner of fuss because someone is there. A cool touch at his forehead, muttered words and the cool hand pushes to the back of Schofields neck, helping to prop his head up as more words float above him.

Schofield understands what is said as something is pressed to his lips. It’s not a cup, nor the lip of a canteen but. . . a spoon? Schofield can’t be bothered to think over why that might be, but he takes the drink greatfully none the less.  
What greets him is not tea – there is a mild meaty flavour, slightly sweet but its faint. Its surprrisngly good to his deprived tongue and it spreads warmth throughout his being.

The broth is not taken from him after the first sip and instead the person above him insists on taking more.

Schofield manages half a dozen spoonfuls of the stuff before something churns and he turns his head away. Finally he manages to pull his eyes open when someone pricks his arm with another dose of morphine.  
He watches the orderly in silence, the man is a lance corpal of the Medical Corps and Schofield briefly wonders if this is what the man usually does. But he doesn’t dwell on it and the orderly leaves Schofield without another word as there are others that need tending too. Schofield scans the area around him and thinks that it’s quite dark – did he sleep the entire day? He didn’t feel like he’s regained any strength at all. If anything, he couldn’t imagine feeling any more feeble.

Slowly, he moves his head and feels a wave of relief wash over him when his eyes fall on Blake. The younger man is sleeping, in the muted light Schofield thinks he looks relaxed. Blake’s leg is no longer hoisted up on a frame but Schofield can see it’s still held in a splint beneath the cover. He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding and takes a moment to just. . . watch Blake as his mind turns to all the times where the man was almost killed.

Blake must feel that he is being watched and slowly he is roused from what rest he was having and immediately he finds Schofield.

They are across the ilse from one another, Blake tries to pull himself up into a more seated position as if he wanted to get up and go to Schofields side. But neither men had the strength to do anything aside from stare at one another.

Slowly, Schofield see’s a look of worry and dread cross Blake’s expression, the younger man looks around the tent and has the look of someone who desperately wanted to say something. But the two were not close enough to have a private conversation. Schofield feels some worry trickle into him as he watches Blake wallow in some invisible dread. It takes Schofield sometime to realize what it was that had Blake fretting so much.

_It's my brother._

Ah.

Schofield finds himself looking around the marquee – the image of Joe Blake flickers in his head, and Schofield feels some relief when he doesn’t see the man resting in this tent. He can now understand Tom’s worry – if Joe was here, at least he would know his brother was still alive, and seeing as the men here were not terribly injured it would mean Joe would have been lightly wounded. But seeing as the man is not here, there is a great deal of possibilities as to where he could be.  
Some good, some bad. Schofield tries to make some small gesture to Blake, to try and tell his friend that everything would be fine. But he feels his strength flag again and he wilts down once more with another groan.

He does hate to think, that Blake went through all that trouble, just to have Joe taken from him so cruelly. But as Schofield tries to chokes down his next breath he hopes that Blake won’t have to endure losing both of them.

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

Blake had the unshakeable feeling that something was horribly wrong with Schofield.

It seemed like an obvious thing to think; the man had been shot _twice_. Of course, he would look miserable!  
It was likely not helped that Schofield hadn't been seen by any of the surgeons until late last night. The orderlies took Scho away in one of the times Blake was asleep. The only sign Blake had to Scho's absence was the man's sudden lack of hair and the new wraps of fresh linen about his head.

Blake was worried at first, thinking Schofield looked exhausted after the ordeal of being moved around again, and Blake knew how terrible that was to endure now that he's experienced it. He watched Scho and watched his every move, which weren't many, worrying, hoping, and thinking.

But as the hours dragged on into days. . . it's been _days_ now, and Blake has nothing to do but sleep or watch the men around him as they all toiled various versions of agony. He didn't have the strength to do much else aside from the always enjoyable experience of trying to use a bedpan. His leg was still very averse to any moving, so that was something he didn't bother with unless it was unavoidable.

He could dwell on his own pain: the bayonet wound in his hip, and the bullet wound in his thigh competed for which sore hurt the most. Blake had grown bored with dwelling on pain as well as fretting over how he'd get on with the injuries. Would he develop a limp? What if one of the wounds got infected? Could the doctors amputate a leg at the hip?

Blake spent many of his waking hours thinking over these things. But there was also the topic of Joe. And Tom felt his stomach churn whenever his mind turned to Joe and his growing absence. Tom told himself that Joe was fine; he had to be fine.

Tom had seen almost the whole of this new clearing station when he was taken into the farmhouse, where the Roentgen Ray had finally been set up. The space reminded Tom far too much of the farmhouse he and Schofield had wandered through the other day.

It was little more than two rooms, split in half by a hallway that was bookended on either side with old doors. One room held the X-Ray machine; the other was a surgical theater. Blake saw a glimpse of the barn yard and what lay beyond it down the narrow hall and out the back door.

An old stone barn rested across the way was where the other surgical theaters rested. Blake tried not to think about the images he saw in the brief moment he looked into the barn's stalls. Images of the severed limbs and blood-stained ground as ravaged men were treated with great haste and little anesthetic.

Tom didn't see Joe among them, but he couldn't say for certain that he wasn't there – from the number of wounded, Tom guessed that any able-bodied man had to be holding the Front. He'd heard snippets of the situation from other men. There was some chaos, but the Jerries seemed like they couldn't be bothered to put up a serious effort in shoving the Devon's from this mortal coil.

But something was happening elsewhere.

Tom could hear the occasional rumble of distant thunder; he could feel a slight tremble of the Earth from the legs of his cot. Men muttered from time to time of a battle further to the North, and perhaps that was why the Germans decided to leave the Devon's alone because someone else was giving them trouble. Blake concluded that he'd been right: Something big was happening. 

Thomas Blake had never been one for deep thinking; he rarely bothered with the happenings of things and places beyond that which he could see. This war had been the first time he'd done otherwise, and considering where that's landed him… Blake believed that it would probably be best to go back to thinking: Small.

But this led to boredom, which leads to thinking – which brought him round and round and round again in an endless yet exhausting _and_ tedious cycle that's left the young man tired, and frustrated. 

The only break from this monotony was a surprisingly bumper breakfast.

Orderlies came in with trays that carried bowls of gruel, flavored with egg drops and topped with tiny black puddings next to a single rasher of bacon. The men were then given a broth that had the slightest taste of roasted meat and onion. But for once, the intrigued masses all concluded that the tea was meant to taste that way. The tent was filled with happy chattering and exclamations of surprise or joy. As much the food was better than anything the men have had in weeks.

Was this what the sick and injured were fed normally?

From the reactions of the other soldiers: Tom would guess that the answer was no.

Blake listened to the men's chatter but not joining in the conversations as he wolfed down the food. Though he did give a momentary pause when one of the men joyfully announced the food was horse meat – and the uninjured men were enjoying stews and hasty puddings—a shocking feast of plenty over what had been nothing but onion soups and biscuits.

A sudden groan from Schofield snaps Blakes mind to attention; he blinks and looks across the space to see Schofield – he seemed to be in pain, and Blake could see the way his chest heaved up and down as he toiled.

Tom's seen Schofield endure night terrors before – on the quiet evenings when the battalion was away from the Front. Usually, he was utterly silent, his limbs moving in small jerking motions before he jolted awake with a quiet gasp. This was different.

Scho caused enough of a commotion for an Orderly to descend on him. The man leans down to question Schofield, but there is no answer, and the orderly moves so quickly that Blake hardly follows the motion.

The man grabs a bedpan from the box they set up as a make-shift table. He wrenches Schofield onto his side, and the man becomes briefly but violently ill. The episode leaves Schofield's retching and sobbing; he deflates onto the cot as a second orderly comes to see the trouble. Blake watches, feeling fear and dread swirl in his belly as Schofield is cleaned up.

"What have you given him?" the second man asks, and Blake feels the slightest jolt in his gut from the man's voice. He isn't sure why, but he feels like he's about to be admonished, and there is a slight thrum in his cheek. Tom shrinks back into the tiny pillow behind him, and he listens closely.

"Nothing Sir, just the tea."

"And how much did you give him?"

"Nearly a dozen spoonful's sir."

The other man sighs and shakes his head, gesturing to a teapot that was kept warm on the top of the furnace.

"I told you, the lady instructed that we only give two or three at a time to see how the patient will handle it."

"He seemed to handle it just fine at the time, sir."

Tom misses what happens next, his mind stalling:

The Lady? The Lady. . . The _Lady!_

"Gale!" he coughs as his heart leaps, and he jerks up in his cot.

This, of course, gets the orderlies' attention, and both men snap their heads to stare at Blake, who just as quickly shrinks back into the cot, cursing his enthusiasm, but that doesn't stop the jittery feeling in his chest.

Gale is still alive, and she's doing. . . _something._ This is wonderful! Tom's melancholy is cast aside for several glorious minutes as he tries to imagine just what the nurse could possibly be doing. The orderlies stare at him for several seconds before Schofield starts to act up again.

He is hardly cognizant, pawing at the orderlies with one hand while quietly asking for morphine.

"I’m sorry, lad.” The Sergeant says quietly, leaning over Schofield as not to attract everyone’s attention. “I’m afraid you will have to wait for anymore anesthetic.” Schofield doesn’t seem to understand, and the true depth of his withered state brings Tom’s small bought of joy to a halt.

Tom watches as the orderly tries to soothe Schofield with an offering of tea – giving him only two small spoonfuls before using a damp rag to swipe at the sweat on Schofield's feverish brow. This doesn’t seem to help Schofield, he paws at the orderly once more and asks something else, but Tom can’t make out the words; he only catches small sounds from the man as he seems to weaken by the second.

The orderly shakes his head and says something that makes Schofield still slightly.

“But I promise I will keep an eye out for you, lad.” The Sergeant says, taking a moment to pat Schofield's shoulder before the man stands up straight and goes back about his business.

Tom watches the man go, and his curiosity is peaked.

When it is time for the next round of tea, Tom gets his chance. Tea is given in four-hour intervals; Tom knows because he catches small glimpses of the orderlies’ wristwatches when they pass by. Blake is given a small cup to sip at, while many men are only given spoonfuls. As he watches the hours go by, he learns that there is a system to it.

If a man cannot handle the dosage of tea he is given, he is given less in the next round. And those who are given less are given the tea more often.

Schofield is being given two spoonfuls of tea every other hour. But since his bought of sickness, the man has grown increasingly difficult to rouse. Tom just kept telling himself that Scho would be fine; he just needed to rest up.

It was after the dinner rounds, Tom was trying his best not to go mad from boredom and had taken to staring at the flickering light of the stove as it attempted to warm the room. He wasn’t really paying attention to anything going on around him; the morphine had worn away, and he was stuck, marinating in his own pain, and he wonders if the men will be given another round to stave off the discomfort for the night. Or if they would be expected to try and sleep like this.

The supplies must have been getting low; it was the only explanation for why the men weren’t getting the morphine at the same rate they had been before.

Tom hated thinking about such things; there was nothing he could do about them. Not in this state- if he were more able-bodied, he might have volunteered to be a runner. Try to reconnect these men with the rest of their battalion, bring supplies back. Something.

“Sergeant! this man’s stopped breathing.”

Blake goes still, his eyes widening as the man in his periphery starts moving frantically about the cot where Scho was resting.

_Oh, God, no. Oh God, No._

For a moment, Blake can’t force himself to turn his head and look; he stares from the corner of his eye as another man, an older one rushes to Scho’s bedside. There are no words as the taller man quickly checks Schofield.

“Ground.”

The man barks, grabbing the thin sheet that lay beneath Schofield as the Orderly does the same. Schofield is lifted from the cot and quickly lowered to the ground. The Sergeant then effortlessly and bodily flips Schofield onto his belly, flinging the man's arms over his head in what looked like one fluid motion.

Blake watches, his head turning to watch the commotion despite it all. He doesn’t wasn’t to look, he doesn’t want to see, but he can’t look away.

The Sergeant straddles Schofield, almost sitting on the man's legs as he puts his hands on Schofields mid-back. The medic pushes down, slowly moving his body forward until all the man's weight is bearing down on Schofield's ribs. Then, just as slowly, he moves back to where he started. Then repeats the motion again and again.

The orderly is sitting at Schofield's head, listening intently as the man is made to breathe. The Sergeant pauses, and the two waits to see if Schofield breaths on his own, and Tom feels his whole body grow cold when he does not.

“Jesus no…” Tom whimpers as the medic starts his ministrations again. However, every time the man swung his weight back, he lifts his hands from Schofield's back, grabs his arms, and forced them to turn down to Schofield's sides.  
The orderly grabbed Schofield's arms and pulled them back up as they had been before, as the Sergeant continued his previous motions. They pumped Schofield's arms like the handle of a pitcher pump in some strange but choreographed maneuver.

“Bugger!” snaps the Sergeant letting out a frustrated huff. “I can’t do this night lad, come on.” He mutters, not stopping in his efforts.

Blake doesn’t know what to think; he stares, tears pool in his unblinking eyes, unsure if they should fall or not, and Blake hardly dares to move. The tent around them has fallen silent as the dozens of men inside watch with equally bated breath.

Then, just as his last flickers of hope begin to fade, there is a deep and desperate gasp. A cough, sputtering.

“There we go!” cries the Sergeant, moving to help Schofield sit up; the man pats Schofield's chest triumphantly as the man struggles to get his breathing back under his own control. “There you are, lad, well done.”

The marquee fills with clapping. Brief whoops and compliments are thrown at either the medical staff or Schofield as the man is carefully returned to the cot, and his blanket is replaced.

Schofield is red in the face, his lips tainted purple, and he moves in boneless and uncontrolled ways, looking around blearily and not knowing what is happening or who is around him. His eyes fall on Blake, and Tom smiles tearfully when the fear in Scho’s pale eyes melt away a small degree. He is propped up into a sitting position when the Sergeant shoves a rolled-up blanket under his back – to make breathing a bit easier. Then the man presses a tool to Schofield's chess, listening to his lungs as they work.

Blake lets out a mighty sigh and leans back against the cot.

_Thank you, Lord, Thank you._

The men continue to fret over Schofield for some time, eventually opening his shirt, and Tom gets to see the extent of his friends' injuries for the first time.

Much of Schofield's front is now tainted with large blots of red, black, and blue. Angry patches of badly scraped skin intermingle with bruises that Tom hadn’t seen the day before last. But it is nothing compared to the angry smudges that mar his back.

Blake feels his breath hitch when he sees that Schofields back had been rendered into one giant bruise. The medics don’t seem bothered by the discolored skin; they must have known about it beforehand, but Tom. . . Tom was left wondering how he missed the damage when he last saw Schofield. But perhaps, the bruises had developed later? Unless. . .unless the bruises came from the shelling? Tom could remember being near the shells before, but he can’t recall ever being bruised like Schofi-

“What seems to be the trouble, gentlemen?”

Tom jerks slightly as a taller man walks into his line of sight, blocking his view of Schofield. This man is older, and he carries a Colonel's rank – but that is _not_ Mackenzie. Blake is momentarily caught up, wondering why the medical corps would send a Colonel with the Devons; this doesn’t sound like the sort of business a man of that rank should be dabbling in.

“- We think it was exacerbated by the shelling’s, Sir.”

Blake blinks, he’s missed something, and when he refocuses, Schofield is laying down again, pale and still laboring. The Colonel hums and takes the Sergeant's tool, listening to Schofield as his heart and lungs work.

“Rest,” the man says after several minutes of silence. “The man simply needs good rest and good substance: I will prepare some milk of arrowroot for him.” The Colonel explains with a near grim expression. “Someone will have to watch over him for the night.”

“We can’t move him in with the other acute cases, sir?”

“No, we absolutely cannot move him again – someone must come here.”

“I’ll watch him.” Tom blurts out before he can even begin to think about what that might entail. He has managed to sit up, his eyes locked on Schofield for a long time before his gaze slowly lifts to stare the Colonel in the face. At first, the man says nothing; the other two medical staff look incredulous. The Sergeant even scoffs.

“Don’t be daft – you are in no condition for such things.”

“If all I have to do is sit there and keep an eye on ‘em.” Tom starts, immediately incredulous as he makes a gesture to a stool next to the furnace that he could use.

“Put the idea aside, lad,” the Sergeant says with a tone of finality “Don’t forget, you were in a similar condition not three nights ago.”

The Sergeant then proceeds to hook the stool with his foot, and with one expert swing of his leg, he has it plopped down on the grass at Schofield's bedside.

“But my brother Joe watched aft-“

“Lieutenant Blake was in perfect health and knew how to resuscitate a man if the need arises.” The Sergeant explains as he lowers himself to the ground. “You are not, and do not – therefore, you cannot.”

Tom huffs, tears of frustration well in his eyes – he knows he wouldn’t be able to do what the medic had just done, but he feels…he needs to. . . _be_ at Schofield's side. He looks to his friend, but Schofield seems to have fallen to sleep yet again, and Blake is struck with the same horrid fear he felt that night in the lockhouse.

_He's dead- he can’t be dead not like this, not because of me- please God, not like this._

There is a hand on Tom's shoulder, and he jolts slightly, blinking rapidly until his eyes are fixed on the man before him. The Colonel.

“If you would like, we can move your cot nearer to his.” The man says gently. There is much pity in his eyes. It lends Blake to think that this man has seen far too much of these kinds of things.

Blake swallows and nods slowly, unable to find words.

The Sergeant: Sergeant Shore, as Blake finally learns and the orderly are not pleased with the decision, but they move silently and with careful speed, as they shuffle things around to make it, so Blake is laying within arm’s length of Schofield. It is an odd arrangement, and it forces Shore to move his stool to the other side of Schofield's bed. The other man has little to say to Blake, but after everything is settled in again, the Sergeant simply settles down on his stool, pulls a small book from some pocket in his kit, and begins his ‘watch.’

Tom takes this chance to very much act like he is the one watching over Scho – and he takes this self-appointed task very seriously. He watches Scho closely, moving to take the man's hand in his.

Scho feels warm, feverish, and Blake wrinkles his nose as he is made to hold Schofield's injured hand. He inspects the bandages with extreme scrutiny. They are too loose, and Blake doesn’t think twice when he begins to undo the dressings.

He knows that they were changed in the morning, and he has no new dressings to replace these with, but if he can just tighten them up a tad-

“Jesus!” Blake coughs, his hands flying back in shock as he lifts the last layer of gauze, which reveals writhing masses wriggling about the tear in Schofield's hand.

His outburst catches the Sergeants attention; of course, the man's book is tossed to the table and the medic flies to his feet – seemingly caught unawares.

“What _is_ it, lad?” Shore asks after a moment of watching the situation. Blake blanches and makes a gesture to Schofield's hand.

“Look!” is all he can manage, his stomach churning.

The medic hums, leans down, and takes Schofield's hand, moving it closer to the light.

“My, my my – the little buggers are having a time aren't they.” He mutters, unperturbed. Blake feels his jaw go slack as he watches the medic take the dressings and start to put them back over the festering invaders. “Best to keep covered up; they don’t like the cold.”

“There are maggots in his effing hand!” Blake cries, his whole frame shaking as he stares at the Sergeant in appalment. The man's expression soured, and he leaned in closer to Blake.

“There’s no need to cause a fuss.” He hisses, his tone a warning as the man gently puts Schofield's hand down. “And you best be grateful for that, cause it weren’t for them, his hand would have come off.”

Blake can do nothing but sit at stare, his mind ground to a halt, he’s only ever seen maggots infesting dead things, eating the rotten and forsaken corpses in no man’s land – but there they were, in Schofield's hand. They were _eating_ his friend and Schofield was. . . he was. . .

Tom has to lay back down; he stares at the ceiling, a hand covering his mouth as his throat grows tight. He stays this way, the Sergeant offering no comfort or information as the man settles back and returns to his book.

In time, the Colonel returns, a small pot in hand. He relieves the Sergeant for a time and settles beside Schofield. Coaxing one, and precisely one spoonful of milky liquid into Scho. The man manages to drink it without waking. The Colonel makes an approving noise and nods before turning his attention to Blake briefly.

“One spoonful, every hour.” He says, holding up his watch and allowing Blake to see that it was already eight at night. “On the hour.”

Blake nods, but he hasn’t a watch to keep track himself, that was taken with the rest of his kit and personal effects on his first night here. Blake cannot imagine where the stuff was, but he didn’t have it in him to think about it.

He sits there, watching Scho trying not to think at all, and as he sits there, every hour, on the hour, the Colonel moves and gives Scho another single spoonful of tea. There is a time, where the Colonel had to get up and leave for something or other, and Tom is left to watch his friend alone.

Tom isn’t sure what comes over him, but he reaches over and snatches Schofield's sleeve in his hand. He doesn’t want to disturb Scho, but he can’t stop pawing at the man, and when Tom reaches to retake Scho’s hand and, he is startled when Scho makes for him in return.

“Blake…”

Tom flinches, his eyes go wide. Slowly, Schofield is looking at him. He draws in a deep breath, and Blake finds himself scrambling to get closer.

“Scho!" He hisses, almost crying in joy. Schofield tries to speak again, his voice weak and crackly. Tom wishes there was something he could do. But there isn’t, so he sits back and waits as Schofield forces himself to speak.

"You have to-," Schofield started, his hand briefly moving for his chest before he stops, a look of devastation washes over him for a moment, and Schofield looks at Tom in desperation.

“My girls.” He rasps, his breathing coming quicker. "My girls…you tell – you tell them."  
  
"No." Tom snapped, ducking his head, one hand tangling in the material of Schofield's shirt, while the other squeezes the other man’s hand as tightly as he dared... He shook his head, warding off Wills pleas, the man growing increasingly desperate as Tom refutes him.

  
"I'm not going to do that, Scho." Tom declared, looking up and staring Will straight in the eye. "Because you're going to tell them yourself- You're not going out like this, Scho." Blake scooted himself closer, as close as he can, staring at Scho with such intensity that his argument's fade away, but the fear in his eyes remained.  
  
"You're going to make it home; see those beautiful girls of yours. Y-your going to raise them up-" Blake stops, the tightness in his throat growing painful. He almost sobs, then shakes his head before staring Schofield dead in the eye again.

"You're not dying like this; you hear me?"

Schofield stares at him, tears ringing his eyes, and he shakes his head.

"I'm scared, Tom," he admits finally, a small sob racking Scho as the last threads of his pride break down. Tom feels the words like a strike to his very soul.

"Don't be." Tom declared, forcing strength into his voice; he presses his forehead to Scho’s, feeling the heat rolling off him. He must be brave. Brave like Scho always was whenever Blake was frightened. He needs to be strong- like Scho always is. "I'm here, Scho, I'm staying right here- and so are you."  
  
Schofield was quiet after this; he gives nothing but the smallest sob, followed by an equally small nod before his eyes slip closed and his breathing slows again.

Tom wept, holding Schofield's hand tightly. Tom bowed down, resting his head over Schofield's heart- listening to each thundering beat of his heart, and each wheezing breath from his lungs.

This is the sight that greets Colonel Monroe when he returns. Tom hears the man sigh and mutters something under his breath. The Colonel tries to right Tom in his bed, but both Tom and Schofield tense at the motion. And the man is made to push Tom's cot right up against Schofields. Sparing Blakes spine, as it had begun to protest vehemently at the strange ways Tom had contorted himself over the span between his cot and Schofield’s.

If the man curses Tom, the young Blake doesn’t hear it, but he is aware that the man returns to his hourly duty of feeding Schofield the tea. At some point, the man brings an additional blanket, and a warm water sack is placed in the space between the two men.

The chill is finally chased away, and Tom’s mind is made quiet as he listens to the sound of Scho’s heart in his ear.

  
When morning came, the first thing Blake noticed was the heartbeat.  
  


Still there.  
  


Tom wept again, and he thanked God. Slowly picking himself up off his friend, Blake was shocked to see Schofield awake.

His grey eyes were still tainted pink, but there was a look of pure apathy that Scho fixed at Tom.  
  
Blake couldn't stand it; he recoiled as if branded, and he felt the guilt slam into him. He knew, he knew well, that what he did was awful.  
  
To deny a man his dying wish- it was the most selfish thing Blake could have done. He settled back into his cot, the whole thing is icy cold, and he shivers, watching Scofield like a scolded child. But the older man says nothing. Schofield turns his head away, eyes drifting closed with a deep sigh, and the disappointment is palpable

It hurt. But Tom found he didn't care when he thought about it- because Schofield had to be alive to hate him.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I hope you all enjoyed this week's chapter! 
> 
> I have two notes for you today!
> 
> The first: in this chapter, we see a form of 'Manual Resuscitation' I decided to depict the two methods that were commonly in use before and during the Great War. The first where Schofield is placed on his back and the doctor applies then removes pressure from his ribs is called 'The Schaefer method' Developed in 1903 and accepted in 1909 by the Royal Society of Medicine. 
> 
> The other method shown is a version of the older 'Silvester's Method' (developed in 1858) where the patient's arms are moved up and down in order to draw air in and out of the lungs. The only change depicted here was that in the Silvester Method, the afflicted person is meant to be laying on their back. 
> 
> Then the second note is on: Maggot Debridement! 
> 
> Maggots have been used off and on over the centuries as means of cleaning wounds, but never in widespread situations. During The Great War numerous accounts from doctors and nurses. Detail how they would treat men who'd been left in No Man's Land, some for days at a time. But sometimes, instead of finding gangrenous wounds, they found clean and healing wounds, covered in maggots. 
> 
> After the Great War, more studies into the use of maggots for medical purposes were done, and their use quickly became widespread. Means of sterilizing maggot eggs came into practice. As the flies that carry and lay the maggot's eggs, are often covered in dangerous bacteria.  
> Maggot Debridement was used heavily in the early days of the Second World War, before falling out of favor to the more widespread use of penicillin and sulfa drugs. But the practice of Maggot Debridement was revived in the 1990's and it still in use today.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay folks!

* * *

His last day on the Line was shaping up to something of a miserable one.

A harsh wind sends a chill through his bones, and he thinks that the Germans will not be causing any trouble today. The stiffness in his aching self him as much. Never before had Joe given much stock to the older folk. Who claimed to predict the weather from the stiffness in their bones alone.

But here he was. . .

Joe turns his head up towards the sky and takes in the darkening greys and lowering clouds. The wind has been growing steadily in strength. It whistled through the trenches and menaced the men with an icy caress.

There was the smell of snow in the air, and as the hours passed, scattered flakes began to fall in heavy dollops.

It was wet at first, melting the moment it struck and leaving everything damp. Then colder, dryer wind brought colder, dryer snow. The flakes shrunk in size but grew in number. It was now sticking and building upon the men as well as everything else that wasn't undercover.

Joe forced himself to rise from his spot and start to patrol the line. There is a sharp bite of pain from his wounds, and for a moment, he stays still.

"Damn Boche." He mutters, his hand pressing the gauze hidden beneath his uniform before the Lieutenant moves on. The fact that he has to make his way in a crouch does not help his ailments.

So, he makes his way up and down his section, checking on his exhausted men. Most try to find means of staying warm: be it wrapping up in their gum blankets and huddling together. Or using their entrenching tools to carve tiny earthen ovens into the walls of the trenches.

Some men took whatever tools they had and carved extra wood into splinters. Those with matches huddle close to the kindling to ward off the wind long enough for a spark to catch.

He finds Private Ludwig peddling his little tin-can stoves in exchange for cigarettes.

Joe stops among the groups of men, asking after their wellbeing. Making sure the men kept an eye out for frostbite or hypothermia in their peers. A quick check of his watch told Joe that they would be getting relieved soon, but the danger was still there. And seeing as the battalion was still very much isolated. Keeping the men healthy is an even greater necessity than it usually was.

Joe carries himself forward until he reaches the very edge of an intersection. Across this open span, men from the Seventh Platoon huddle about in the same manner as his own. Joe shivers as he leans against the trench to relieve his aching leg. He turns his head to look in the direction of No Man's Land.

Most of the Devon's Front is still little more than a wiggling line in the ground. But in some places, the nightly labor parties have been digging the standard zigs and zags into the earth. Here, the line will push outward, where a machine gun nest is likely to be installed. It is in a good spot and must be, as the Devons have very few machine guns.

Checking his watch once more, he hears a rise in chatter, and Joe turns back to his men – are they being relieved? After several minutes of watching and a short jaunt around the bend back in the direction, he came. Joe concluded that the men meant to be relieving the 3rd Platoon were not yet here.

The timing of things has been... slightly mismanaged in the days following the shelling. It was not to be unexpected considering their losses. But it was still a mild irritation to be stuck on the clock after the bell has rung.

But he needn't have worried for long because as the light of the shrouded sun started to fade into the evening when the shadowy forms of A Company's second Platoon began to file into the trench.

Joe meets with Lieutenant Hatley. He imparts any useful information he's learned over the day to the other man before telling his men to head back down from the Line and get some food. Then make sure the billets are all sealed up for the cold if they weren't already. Then clean up and go to bed.

He shares a billet with A Company's second Lieutenant. And Hatley has the wonderous habit of keeping the billet in good order. So, Joe shrugged off his outermost layers and hung them from the central pole.

There is a spot of tea sitting on the curved plate of the tent's conical Sibley Stove. A quick inspection reveals the tea to be Valerian Root, and Joe shakes his head with a smirk. It would seem that Hatley was trying to tell him something.

So, Joe does a quick wash-up and takes a cuppa before sliding into his cot and doing his best to get a good night's rest. Because in the morning, despite being off the Front Line. The 3rd Platoon was already queued for labor parties.

(Aril 11th)

When morning comes, the weather is bitter, and while the snow has stopped. The howling winds send blasts of ice sprinkled air in whatever direction the gusts would take it. The weather made for a long, frigid walk to the Clearing Station, where Joe and most of his men would be working.

There were times when being an Officer has its benefits. At first, Joe assumed that today would be an occasion where he could enjoy those. He is told to help bring breakfast to the other injured officers holed up in the French Barn. He was familiar with the building at least, having spent the first night after the shelling here.

It was not a lengthy task: handing out breakfast. But Joe spent a few minutes too many chatting with the lads who were stuck in their beds. And he spends a moment more pondering one bed that was now empty.

But then it's back to the field kitchen, where large rectangular tins are loaded with steaming gruel. At the same time, various men are finagling with tea trolleys. But with all the snow about, the things were useless. Some men started to shovel wider trails in the snow. In contrast, others picked up the trolleys and started carrying them around.

Joe is given a large tin of gruel, and he is told to go off with a fuming Sergeant from the RAMC: Greyson.

Joseph didn't know the man. But a quick study of the man makes Joe realize something. Every single Medic he’s seen looks absolutely wrung out.

“Where’s Lance Corporal Bacon?” Joe asks innocently, and Greyson’s eyes do an impressive roll.

“No bacon.” The man says, clipped his irritation almost palpable, “no meat of any kind – we’re all out.” The sergeant adds, cutting off Joes next question before he has a chance to ask it.

“We had hasty pudds and soup the other day.” The lieutenant observes now troubled. He sees all the muscles in Greyson’s neck and jaw goes taught for a moment. He starts to wonder if the poor man needs a fag; he’s far too high-strung to be working.

“We served up all the horse meat cause we didn’t have a way to keep it more than a day or two: and now it’s gone.”

“When was the last time you’ve slept, sergeant?” Joe asks, bringing the man to a halt.

“Doesn’t matter.” He answers, not meeting Joe in the eye, but he doesn’t move, “We’ve been up watching the acute cases at all hours an-Aaah! Bugger me!” the man snaps, turning to look back at the house. He looks at Joe, suddenly having the appearance of a man at the end of his rope. “I forgot the fucking. . . go back, round the house.” The man says, waving a hand back the way they came. “In the cellar, Doctor Monroe should have the tea ready.”

Joe raises an eyebrow and looks back at the house before pointing at the field kitchen.

“Isn’t the tea over there?”

“No!” snaps Greyson, reaching over to grab the other handle from Joe’s hand. “it's for the acute case in there- can’t ya just -”

Joe cuts Greyson off with a nod and smile. Knowing he should scold the Medic for disregarding who’s the higher-ranking man. Instead, he gives the poor bloke a gentle pat on the shoulder before doubling back. He is rounding the corner of the farmhouse. Following the trails in the snow, when someone comes running up to him:

“Sir? Lieutenant sir!”

Joe pauses and turns, making a curious noise when he spots a taller man huffing and puffing something terrible. Next, he sees is that the man isn’t from the Devons.

“Yes, Private?”

The man salutes, breathless.

“Sir, Private Kilgour, Yorks. I need to speak with Colonel Mackenzie – was told he was, over here.”

Blake blinks and ponders that for a moment, another runner but this one’s made it through unharmed. A dozen questions suddenly spike up in his head, but Joe only hums.

“Is he?” Joe quips leaning down to grab the door of the cellar and heaving it open with a groan. “I don’t know about Colonel Mackenzie, but we’ve got a Colonel Monroe down ‘ere.”

He gestures to the cellar and ducks down, making his descent.

“You’ve got two colonels?” Kilgour asks, the taller man nearly having to crouch as he follows Blake, who only hums.

He reaches the bottom of the stairs and catches small tidbits of conversation:

“You're not going to perform the surgery?”

“I think it best if I don’t; X-rays showed the skull to be fractured but intact…”

Joe pauses and listens, intrigued.

“...If I perform the surgery, she will have to remain here for another two---my Lord Harold, did you leave the door open?”

Joe flinches and starts moving immediately –

“Colonel Mackenzie! Colonel Monroe!” he chirps, moving off the stairs. Flinching when the other chap stands ramrod straight and bangs his brodie against a beam.

Both Colonels look over at the two. Monroe is in the midst of pouring something into a steaming pot. While Mackenzie sits at a small table in the center of the room. They look to have been interrupted over breakfast.

“Lieutenant Blake.” Mackenzie drones, putting down his fork and knife. Before slowly rising from his seat, pulling his uniform down into place as he stands.

“Well, come on, get in here, and you there: close the door.” He orders, gesturing to Kilgour, not yet realizing that the lad isn’t one of his. But Kilgour obliges, turning round to stop the cold from pouring in. As Joe moves into the room properly, still at attention.

Mackenzie looks him over a moment before sipping at a steaming cuppa. Joe knows its coffee by the smell, and his mouth waters.

“You’re looking better, Lieutenant,” Mackenzie observes, and Joe nods. Giving a clipped ‘Sir!’ in answer before Kilgour returns.

“Well? What is it then, gentlemen?” the man presses, making a small motion with his hand: telling the men to be at ease. But he pauses halfway and looks at Kilgour. “You’re not one of mine.” He says, an edge growing in his tone.

Kilgour answers in the affirmative. His hand flying to a messenger’s bag where he fishes out a letter while introducing himself.

“The Yorks?” Mackenzie wonders, moving forward to take Kilgour's letter. He pauses, seeing the young man shiver. “Well…go on, take a seat by stove, get warmed up.” He says, gesturing to the table.

Monroe says nothing and continues to tinker with something the other men can’t see.

“And help yourself to the food – you look famished.”

“Sir! Thank you, Sir!” Kilgour says, shocked as he shuffles over and takes a seat out of the way of either man. Mackenzie hums dismissively, opening the letter and scanning it. But he pauses and looks at Blake.

“Not hungry, Lieutenant?”

“No, sir.” Joe chirps, folding his hands behind his back. “I was told to collect the tea?” he pauses, leaning over slightly to look at Doctor Monroe. “For the. Acute patient?”

“Yes, Yes,” Monroe states, tossing an empty tin of Evaporated milk into a crate. “It’ll but just a moment more.”

Joe nods and prepares to stand there silently until the tea is finished. However, he's curious about why the Doctor is using milk, as well as cutting slivers from some strange root. Then Mackenzie pipes up. Sounding scandalized as he returns his attention to Private Kilgour.

“Lieutenant Leslie? Who is Lieutenant Leslie?” he asks. Kilgour gulps down a mouthful of dry biscuit and egg. He chases it back with water from his canteen before standing again.

“Sir – Lieutenant Leslie is…our Commanding Officer, Sir.”

“A Lieutenant,” Mackenzie says again, his brows rising impressively. “Your battalion is being led by a Lieutenant?”

Kilgour swallows again and nods; he shifts his weight between his feet nervously.

“Yes, Sir, but i-its not our whole Battalion, just...two companies, Sir.”

This does not put Mackenzie at ease, and the man takes a deep breath to calm his outrage. He looks back at Monroe. Who is similarly shocked, but he cannot be caught up, as whatever he is making in the pot starts to froth.

“And this Lieutenant Leslie.” Mackenzie starts again, slowly turning back to Kilgour. “says you’ve occupied Ecoust?”

“Yes, sir!” the private answers. “We settled in, late Saturday– tried getting closer to the German Line to dig in but, they started shelling us, Sir.”

The Colonel nods and hums; returning to the table, he slaps the letter down and sits with a thump.

“We did witness shells landing near the town – wondered what that was about.” He says offhandedly, returning to his meal. But again, he pauses, looks at Kilgour, then leans over and grabs the plate the lad was using. “Eat.”

Kilgour looks overwhelmed for a moment and doesn’t seem to know if he should sit again or stay standing. But he does manage to take the plate.

“How many wounded have you?” Monroe asks, finally speaking up, at the same time, pouring a steaming white liquid through a sieve and into a teapot.

“We lost three, eight more were wounded, but those are mostly bumps or bruises, sir.” The private reports. “Most of us took shelter in the buildings and cellars.”

“Lucky for you then.” Mackenzie quips, somewhat bitterly. “What are the Yorks orders?” he asks after a pause.

“I can’t say for certain, sir.” The private says honestly. “All I was told. Is that we were to chase after the Germans. Meet up with the Devons to the North and Fusiliers to the South – to stop the Germans from flanking us, right?” Kilgour asks, looking to the Colonel for affirmation.

“The Spring Offensive,” whispers Mackenzie, making a revelation. “So they’ve gone ahead with it then.” He pauses and sips at his coffee. “If our forces are pressing the Germans at Arras, then the Germans will try to press us here.”

“Where the line is weakest,” Monroe states, walking around to hand the steaming pot off to Blake. Who has been watching the exchange in silence, building concern.

“Here you are, Lieutenant – Milk of Arrowroot.” The doctor states as Joe takes the pot. “Let it cool some before letting the Corporal have it, and make sure Greyson stays to task.” Monroe points a finger at Joe, waggling it slightly. “No more than four spoonfuls in an hour.”

“Sir?” Joe sputters, watching in confusion as the Doctor moves off and starts to shoulder his jacket on.

“it's his responsibility, not yours.” That's all he says as he moves for the stairs. “Now, if you would all excuse me – I have to check up on our Jerry friends.”

Blake is shooed out the cellar by Monroe, and before he can think twice about any of what he’s just learned. He’s back across the barnyard. Sometimes he forgets that there’s a greater war going on beyond what he can see. Most of the time, when he’s reminded of it, Joe quashes the thoughts back down and away. Focus only on what he can control.

Like keeping this arrowroot stuff from sloshing out the spout all over the ground.

He ducks into the marquee and see’s that Greyson is… nowhere to be found. But each man has a bowl of gruel and a cup of tea. Joe didn’t think he’d been waylaid that long, and he isn’t too sure what to do with this tea.

Monroe said it was for a Corporal. . . so Joe would have to wonder about until he found the sickliest looking Corporal in the tent. It is not a long search as he’s flagged down by one man he wasn’t expecting to see.

“Townsend!” he chirps, smiling as he comes to stand beside the man. The ruddy-haired man looks a bit haggard. But his eyes are bright as ever, and he gives Joe an enthusiastic 'Hullo!’ when he gets near.

“I wondered where you ended up,” Joe says in greeting, reaching over to shake the man's hand. Townsend flinches upon sitting up. His free hand coming to rest over the dressings wrapped around his torso.

“I could say the same of you.” The man says with a tense smile. “can’t be too bad if you're taking up from the Robbers.”

Joe pauses a moment. Staring at Townsend before remembering what others have decided the RAMC stands for.

“That’s not very nice Towney, no wonder they’ve wandered off.” He rebukes before asking Townsend if he knew which man in here needed the special drink. To his relief, Townsend was fully aware.

“That bloke over there.” He says, pointing to a man at the far end of the tent, “The one laying on his side.” Townend pauses long enough to see if Joe spots which one it is the presses on. “They had to bring him back from the Pearly Gates yesterday; he’s been in a miserable state since.”

Joe hums and nods; a stone drops in his stomach as he silently moves closer to the cot. He might not have known Lance Corporal Schofield for more than a few minutes. But he’d hoped the man would pull through. And Joe tells himself it is more than just for his brother's sake.

Speaking of.

Joe pauses again, spotting Thomas in the cot besides Schofield. He heaves a great sigh, the tension leaving his body when he sees his younger brother asleep and well. There is color back in his face, and he seems to be resting without pain. Save for the small traces of tears that rested on his cheeks.

That troubled Joe somewhat, but he wasn’t going to disturb Tom while he was sleeping. So joe turns his attention back to Schofield. He is surprised to see that the man was awake, even though he was simply laying there on his side, staring off into space. Seeing nothing.

Joe sees a stool at Schofield's bedside, and he’s heard enough about what needs to be done, so he settles down.

“Corporal?” he whispers, tone gentle, and he doesn’t touch the man. Thankfully, he doesn’t need much rousing. Schofield's grey eyes flicker to Joe as the man pours the milky drink into a cup. “My name is Joseph, and I’ll be serving your tea today.” He quips, voice light and airy.

But Schofield is not amused; he doesn’t move. Save for a slow blink and a painful groan as the man makes himself roll over onto his back. Joe is quick to help, being careful not to jostle his injured shoulder. A mistake he made back when he first found the Corporal by the river.

“Have they been giving you anything to eat?” he asks the man as he adjusts Schofield's pillow. To allow him to sit up more quickly. Schofield makes a noise; his mouth moves in the form of a ‘no,’ but the only sound produced is a wheezing, bubbly sound.

“Do you want to try the gruel?”

Schofield gives a weak shake of his head and takes some time to catch his breath. Joe frowns impressively but concedes and reaches for the tea. Schofield’s injuries make it almost impossible for the man to grab anything. One hand is wrapped in bandages, and the other is trapped in a sling. So Joe is left to feed a man as if he were a babe.

“Alright then, Bon Appetit.”

He tries to start a conversation with the man as he does his best ‘nurse’ impersonation. He even decides to try some of this Arrowroot tea nonsense and finds – it's quite good.

“I see why you didn’t want the gruel.” He quips, but again his attempt fails to bring any mirth to the man. Joe sighs, putting the back of one hand to Schofield's forehead. Joe doesn’t need to be any manner of Doctor to know what's wrong with the man before him.

“Oh!” Joe chirps; sitting up straighter, he shifts over, leaving the tea aside. "I meant to do this sooner." He starts, one hand plunging into his kit as he looks to the other man smiling. The man stares up at him with dull eyes. He only seems to have energy enough to watch Joe. With growing curiosity as the man wiggles his hand into the deepest reaches of his kit. He cannot help but smile at the way the other man’s eyes go wide and how he suddenly finds the strength to sit up when Joe presents the blue tobacco tin to him.

"I imagine that you've been missing this."

Schofield reaches a shaking hand up for the tin as if he were a starving man being given bread. Joe feels a swell in his chest at seeing the stunned disbelief on the man's face. He was about to explain himself when Joe saw Schofield desperately trying to open the tin.

"Here."

Joe leans over and gently pops the thing open for the poor man. He watches Schofield for a time. As the man gingerly takes out the precious photos and letters held within. It's not until Schofield pulls out the photo of who must be his wife that Joe speaks again.

"Never would have found you without her." He says, watching as a confused look crossed the other man's face.

"We were making our way to Ecoust when this picture, caught up on the breeze, fluttered up and hit my boot." He explains with a shrugging motion. "So I picked it up and thought – that's strange, ain't it? This photograph got some English written on it."

Joe stops then and pats Schofield on his uninjured shoulder. In turn, Schofield sucks in a bubbly gasp and looks up at Joe, tears in his eyes and a strained smile splitting his face. The man is on the verge of falling to pieces, and Joe is happy to take his hand when the Corporal reaches over. He is in no state to offer words, but Joe doesn't need any.

He pats Schofield on the arm and nods. Gently pulling away to allow the man some privacy. Before he moves to check on Tom, who is now awake and is watching the two in silence.

Somehow Tom looks more miserable, being awake. But he smiles at Joe when he’s rounded the cot and settled himself on the bed.

“Morning sleeping beauty.”

Joe reaches down and tussles Toms hair, much to the younger man's annoyance. Tom bats Joe's hands away and looks up at him in annoyance. But that quickly melts away into concern as the younger Blake studied his brother.

"You’re a bloody mess." Tom hisses out, and Joe can’t help but laugh, shaking his head at his bedridden brother's scrutiny.

"Well…yes, I landed myself in a bit of hot water the other day," Joe confesses, pulling his helmet off and grimacing when the tin taps against his injured ear. Joe watches the younger Blakes's face shift when he sees the bandages wrapped around his head.

"I’ve been working double, well everyone’s been working double, so really. I’ve been working triple,” Joe explains.

“You’re injured.” Says the younger Blake, voice high, and he tries to drag himself up to sit straight. “And they’re working you?”

Joe chuckles again and nods; he looks away from Tom for a moment and spots something in the corner of his eye.

“Richards!” Joe beams, smiling wide at the blonde as the other man limps through the marquee. Joe’s smile grows. But Richards only gives Joe a look as if to tell his friend that he wasn’t going to rescue Joe from his brothers fretting.

“Oi, I remember you.” says the younger Blake smiling meekly. Richards, the blonde, smiles, and nods, shuffling his way over.

“Well, that’s good- “ the lieutenant starts leaning into a walking stick he’s acquired. “Glad to see you on the mend, Corporal.”

“Speaking of being injured and mending.” Quips Joe, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “You must be feeling better. I didn’t see you in the Officers Ward earlier.”

“Must have been by when I was washing up then,” Richards says with a shrug. “It took ages with the way I’ve been moving.”

“I suppose that would take awhile – being hit where you were,” Joe states, trying to keep his face straight. Richards narrows his eyes at Joe while Tom balks and looks the other man up and down. But he mustn’t find anything amiss because:

“You were hit? Where at?” he asks, concerned and completely innocent.

“I-In the. . . hip.” Richards sputters, eyes narrowing at Joe, who is struggling not to laugh.

“You got hit in the hip,” Joe says, snickering. “Where did it come out?”

Richards stares for a long moment; then, he bursts out laughing.

“You know where it came out!”

Joe chuckles, hiding his face behind his hand. Before he looks over at Tom and the confusion written all over his face, then Richards lets out a sigh and gingerly points to the aggrieved spot on his posterior.

“It was almost a graze!” Richards mutters, his face turning pink as Joe’s laugh deepens. Tom understands now and giggles in the most boyish way giving only a slight ‘unlucky, that’ as a sign of his sympathy.

“I see all you Blakes really are nothing but trouble.” Joe can hear Richards say. “Is the younger one this much of a handful?”

Joe pauses and turns, finding that Richards has decided to talk with Schofield. Who seems to have the slightest bit of life back in him.

The man looks up at Richards, the ghost of a smile on his exhausted face, and he nods, mouthing the word. “Worse”

“Worse?” Richards sounds concerned now. “You poor bugger.”

This wins Richards a small huff of a laugh from Schofield, and the other man glances at Tom. Who’s been watching Schofield with trepidation. Schofields features soften, and he makes the smallest of shrugging motions.

The group settles into idle chatter after this. Save for Schofield, who drifts to sleep shortly after the proper introductions. Joe is glad to see the man much more at peace now, with his tin pressed firmly over his left breast. Tom thanks him for helping his friend. But Joe quickly realizes that Tom is much more subdued than what he was expecting of his younger brother.

But before Joe gets the chance to ask Tom about any of this – a sound catches his ear. At first, he thinks he’s imagined it, but then it happens again: and all in the tent fall into silence.

“Is that a bloody dog?” someone asks as the unmistakable sound of barking invades the camp. Joe quickly rises to his feet and goes to see what the ruckus is about.

He steps away from the tent, just in time to be nearly bowled over by a brown and black. Joe scoffs. His eyes following the beast as more and more men start a fuss over the creature's sudden appearance.

There is the distinctive white circle and a red cross on a saddlebag over the Airedales back. Also, the dog seems to have snagged someone's helmet as it tears through the farmyard. Then out across the fields.

Joe hears someone give the order to shoot the beast, and he thinks it might be Colonel Mackenzie. But before anyone can fire off a round, the creature is gone. Disappearing into the scrub of a hedge line and it is gone.

Several minutes pass. Some men run after the dog, but with the snow, they will never catch it. Joe watches for a time before returning to the tent.

All the men inside want to know what’s gone on. It was a highly unusual occurrence. But when Joe relays the information to Richards, he seems almost at ease.

“A Mercy Dog?” he mutters, looking around the marquee. “That must mean that someone’s finally gotten to us.”

Nothing more is heard of the incident, and in time Joe must return to his duties. It is obnoxious work, cleaning the dishes, helping to change bandages, and then it is time to hand out food again. But he pauses. There was a shrill noise in the air – like a horse, and Joe feels that it isn’t one of theirs.

He finds himself drawn to the edge of the clearing station, where men were gathering. As he draws nearer, the rumbling of horses slowly invades the area. And the Lieutenant finds himself quite perplexed. To see a column of horse-drawn wagons rapidly carving their way through the snow as they approach the clearing station.

Most surprisingly of all, however, is that each rider: Was a woman. 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now it is time for Random Notes: 
> 
> There really was a series of late Winter Storms in the area around Arras during the first few weeks of April.
> 
> Corporal Townsend refers to the members of the RAMC as "robbers" this is a reference to the less than savory behavior of some medical personnel, who would pilfer things from the wounded and their discarded kits. Which caused people to refer to the RAMC as 'Robbing All My Comrades'. 
> 
> In reality, it was the 8th and 9th Battalions of the Devonshire Regiment who would occupy Ecoust Saint Mein and Croisilles in Early MARCH of 1917. While the Yorkshire Regiment was occupying the village of Hamelincourt ((which is about six miles from Ecoust)). Though they would come to occupy Croisilles in MAY. 
> 
> We also have the appearance of a Mercy Dog: these highly trained animals would be sent out into No Mans's land to search for wounded or missing soldiers. Many would carry saddlebags containing medical supplies. These dogs were often trained to take a piece of something from the wounded soldier they found (such as helmets) and bring it back to the trenches, telling Stretcher Bearers that the dog's found a wounded man. Though it was not unheard of for some dogs to physically drag the wounded man to safety themselves. 
> 
> One of the most popular breeds used by the English as War Dogs was the Airedale Terrier.   
> The Airedale was strong, athletic, and highly intelligent. From finding wounded men to delivering important messages in the most harrowing of situations, the Airedale distinguished itself for heroic action. One notable Airedale, a dog named Jack was posthumously awarded the Victoria Cross for delivering a message that saved his battalion in 1918.


End file.
